Coping with Reformed Killers: a Skeptic's Guide
by poetikat
Summary: In Colorado, Senator Petrelli goes missing. In Maryland, Gabriel Nathanson is accepted into Johns Hopkins as a graduate student. The world keeps spinning, despite everyone's best efforts. A series of nonlinear vignettes about life after Building 26.
1. Part 8: Matt Parkman

Note: This story is purposely told out of order. It's kind of crazy, but bear with me, okay? The chapters are labeled with the order they fall chronologically if you'd rather read it that way, but in my opinion it's best read in the order I've posted it.

Baltimore, MD

Gabe Nathanson's Apartment

Matt Parkman stands outside the door of a tenth floor apartment in the heart of the city. He scuffs his feet on the carpet and ponders what course of action to take. Should he knock politely? Perhaps it would be best if he kicked the door open and stormed in with righteous indignation. There is a sly chuckle in his ear, and he shakes his head violently, as if such an act could dislodge his unwelcome guest. He considers himself lucky that no one has walked past him since his arrival at the apartment complex. This may not be the ritziest neighborhood, but it's a far cry from the dump Mohinder used to live in. If someone were to overhear his whispered arguments with himself, he'd be thrown out on the streets before he could even recite his badge number. If he was still in the NYPD, and if the man he was looking for was still cutting people's skulls open, the door would be in splinters. But he's come to see Gabe Nathanson, the unassuming graduate student, not the monster from his nightmares.

"_And daymares, too",_ comes the sly, malicious whisper from just behind his shoulder.

Brute force and righteous indignation wouldn't get him very far, he concludes. Allowing his emotions to get the best of him would mean surrendering the upper hand. The man he came to see is a slippery, smug bastard, and the only way to get his attention is to play his games even better than the man himself. He takes a calming breath and raises a hand to knock on the door, but the door swings open before he can touch knuckles to wood. The man on the other side leans against the doorframe and asks mildly, "What can I do for you, Detective?"

Matt takes stock of his appearance slowly. He knows, and the other man knows, that it's nothing but a stalling tactic to let him find another tack to regain the upper hand he suspects he never had to begin with. The man is of a height with him, with close-cropped hair and a scar on his chin. He has dark eyes and a large nose and a thin mouth and unremarkable eyebrows. Matt snickers a little, and one of the unremarkable eyebrows rises in a silent query.

"You kept your nose, but not your eyebrows?" Matt asks, and though he'd intended to project an air of authority and purpose into his surprise visit, his impulsive question seems to be the right approach, because the man once known as Sylar laughs a little and opens the door wider.

"I played around with different combinations for hours," 'Gabe Nathanson' says, beckoning Matt inside with a wave of his hand. "This seemed like the best fit for the new me." He leads Matt to the living room and sits in an overstuffed armchair. Though he sits upright, with one ankle crossed casually across the opposing knee, he gives an unmistakable impression of carefree lounging. "Make yourself at home," he adds when Matt hesitates at the edge of the couch.

Matt sits and stares around the room in unabashed fascination. The walls are lined with bookshelves filled from floor to ceiling with weighty texts on an impressive array of topics. There are three shelves dedicated to neurology, another two for abnormal psychology, four for military history—Nathan's influence, he's sure—two on world religions, one on architecture. There's an entire bookcase on all things Indian, which shouldn't surprise him but does nonetheless. He isn't surprised by the lack of fiction in 'Nathanson's' collection. Their lives are too close to what normal people would consider a good plot for escapist fantasies for them to appreciate a good novel anymore. There's a worn and obviously well loved chess set in the corner, stopped halfway through the game. Matt doesn't know much about chess, but the players seem to be well matched.

"How did you find me?" 'Nathanson' asks. "I thought I did a pretty thorough job covering my tracks."

"Oh, please," Matt retorts. "You couldn't have made it easier to find you than if you had a neon sign outside your apartment building that said 'Sylar Is Here'. For someone who claims to be so smart you made some idiotic mistakes. You're a grad student at the same university that Bennett's daughter is attending, Micah Sanders is living with you, and to top it all off, you decided your alias was going to be 'Gabriel Nathanson' of all names? Did you want us to find you?" He's not just a little disgruntled when 'Nathanson's' smirk grows to Cheshire cat proportions, and he realizes to his chagrin that he's just had his chain yanked very effectively.

"After the Building Twenty-Six debacle, Bennett and his cohorts seem much more willing to watch from a distance rather than bring me in. As long as I keep my nose clean and stay on their radar, they don't send in the heavy hitters to take me down." 'Nathanson' frowned playfully. "Not that it's stopped everyone else under the sun from showing up at my door unannounced." He says it with such amusement that Matt is immediately curious who else has been brave enough to come see the boogeyman in his own home.

That stops him cold. He's unarmed, without backup, in Sylar's home. It had been foolish to fly in from L.A. without a plan, and it was incredibly stupid of him to let 'Nathanson's' easygoing attitude and cozy home put him at ease. He wishes he had thought to bring his gun. A cruel laugh echoes behind him and he knows without a shadow of a doubt why he'd overlooked all the problems with his idea to confront Sylar. He tenses in his seat, prepared to either run or fight.

"But I digress," 'Nathanson' says smoothly, his sharp eyes noting and dismissing Matt's unease. "You clearly came for a reason, Detective. Is there something I can do for you?"

"_Just tell me already,"_ his shadow goads him, and it's only from months of practice that he's able to not react. _"Hurry it up, Parkman. You're boring me."_

"Think it over," 'Nathanson' says at Matt's silence. "What's the worst that could happen?"

"You could kill me," Matt blurts before he can stop himself, and both 'Nathanson' and his shadow chuckle at that.

"_I'm too weak to kill you," _his shadow says derisively. _"Just look at me. It's sickening how tame I am._"

"Well, gee, Parkman," 'Nathanson' drawls, "That's awfully tempting, but I think I'll pass. Miss Walker would cry if I so much as pointed at you, and if I made her cry, Micah would be very put out with me."

The dark humor in the answer is so completely Sylar that Matt can't breathe for a moment. Then 'Nathanson' tips him a friendly wink, as if to say that Matt's in on the joke, and it's a smooth and polished gesture that wouldn't be out of place on a politician's face. His stomach does a lazy, nauseating flip – he frankensteined Petrelli's personality on to a sociopath's brain and the product is joking about death with him.

"Jesus," he says under his breath. He thinks he might be stunned by the total insanity of the situation, but then again, it could be shock that he had expected this conversation to be a lot less civil. His thoughts must show on his face, because the mischievous little smirk 'Nathanson' is wearing suddenly has a hard edge to it.

"_This is all your fault,"_ his shadow accuses him. _"You went and turned me into something weak! I make myself want to puke,"_ he says petulantly. _"Get me back in my body. NOW."_ Matt can't completely stop himself from flinching at his shadow's words.

'Nathanson' gives him an appraising once-over. "You certainly didn't come here just to satisfy your curiosity," he states matter-of-factly. "To be honest, you look like crap, Detective. Not getting enough sleep?" There's nothing but honest concern in his face. Still, Matt can't shake the feeling that 'Nathanson' is enjoying his discomfort.

"_Oh, I am,_" his shadow doesn't hesitate to say. _"You may have neutered me, but I think this is ten kinds of funny."_

Instead of answering 'Nathanson', Matt says, "So how's grad school working out for you? You, uh, pick up any new hobbies?" He's really trying to ask about the chess set, but when the words come out he hears only a very clumsy reference to Sylar's killing sprees. "Um – I mean–"

"I know what you meant," 'Nathanson' interrupts. To Matt's relief, he looks more entertained than angry. "School is fine. I'm working on my Master's in civil engineering. It's an interesting field." He smirks. "I'm the TA for the life drawing class. There was this cute little liberal arts major who was supposed to have the job, but apparently there was a last minute scheduling conflict with the rest of her classes." 'Nathanson' opens his eyes wide and innocent. "Computers these days – they're so unreliable."

Matt is startled into a laugh, and he stifles it guiltily. "You shouldn't be getting Micah to do illegal things for you," he says instead. "That kid is going to grow up with no respect for the law."

"That kid is still running the Rebellion out of his room," 'Nathanson' tells him. "And he's got a better grasp on right and wrong than people twice his age. Don't worry about the Boy Genius, Detective. He's going to be just fine." He looks almost fond as he speaks.

Matt's shadow grinds his teeth loudly. _"You're the first one I'm going to kill when I get my body back," _he snarls at Matt._ "I'm going to take my time with you. I'm going to break all your bones, and string you up with your own guts. Then I'm going to take a hacksaw to your skull and piss all over your brain. And then–"_

Matt groans aloud and drops his head into his hands. "Shut up," he moans quietly.

Not quietly enough. "Is something wrong, Detective?" 'Nathanson' asks solicitously, and this time there's no mistaking the amusement being had at his expense.

"I have a headache," Matt mumbles, and his shadow cackles. "So, what happened with the whole psycho killer thing? I figured you'd still be kind of evil. Or crazy. Don't take this the wrong way, but you're kind of, uh, normal for a brain stealing murderer."

"I wondered about that myself, back when I first got my memories back," 'Nathanson' replies, rolling his eyes when Matt shifts guiltily in his seat. "I've done worse, Parkman. Get over it – I did." He pauses to see if Matt has anything to say, then continues speaking. "Anyway, the Boy Genius got me in touch with a woman in Georgia who took a look at my mind and sorted out my memories for me. According to her, I'm psychosis free."

"So she's not…" Matt mimes a slice across his own forehead with his index finger.

'Nathanson' actually looks offended at the idea. "What? No. No, Dot is alive and kicking. She's my chess partner," he adds. "We play by phone."

"_I didn't take her power?"_ Matt's shadow yells in disbelief. _"I'm – I'm toothless! You ruined me, Parkman!"_ The explosion of noise in Matt's ear makes him wince.

"It's not just a headache, is it?" 'Nathanson' asks. The speculative gleam in his eyes frightens Matt much less than he suspects it should. "Spit it out, Parkman," he prompts Matt impatiently. "I promised a friend I'd make lasagna for dinner if she did her homework well, and I need to get started soon."

Matt shakes his head. "I need your help," he admits reluctantly. "When I made you – you know–" He fumbles for the words, and 'Nathanson' cuts him off.

"When you very helpfully shoved a conscience back into my mind," he supplies. "Thank you very much for that, by the way."

"Right," Matt says awkwardly. "When I did that, I kind of, uh, accidentally picked up a mental hitchhiker, if you get my drift."

"_Hitchhiker?"_ his shadow sputters indignantly. _"More like prisoner. You think this is fun for me?"_

'Nathanson' sits up straight, startled. "You–" He cuts himself off abruptly, and presses his lips together as if he's trying to stifle some overwhelming emotion. "Excuse me for a moment," he says in a strangled voice, and he stands and walks from the room.

Matt hears a door open and close, and after a brief moment of silence, raucous laughter fills the apartment. He sits frozen in place, surprised and a bit hurt by 'Nathanson's' reaction. Not in any of a dozen scenarios had he imagined it playing out quite like this. His shadow growls and stomps around the room in a rage, and Matt can – sort of – see the humor in the situation.

An indistinct voice breaks into 'Nathanson's' laughter, presumably to ask a question. 'Nathanson' replies in a low voice, still chortling. The first voice speaks again, and 'Nathanson' reopens the door in time for Matt to catch the tail end of the speaker's comment.

"–Weird how many people with multiple personalities I know," Micah says, and when Matt's shadow howls in outrage Matt snorts with laughter.

Micah follows 'Nathanson' back into the living room, lingering at the edge of the room as 'Nathanson' retakes his seat. He watches Matt curiously.

"I'm sorry, Detective," 'Nathanson' says, grinning broadly. "It seems like I have even more to thank you for. I must admit, I've been very curious as to where my inner nutcase disappeared to."

"He's here," Matt sighs. "It's a total mystery to me why you were so good at eluding capture. All he does is talk about killing." He watches his shadow draw a finger across his throat menacingly, and turns back to 'Nathanson'. "He has a very one track mind."

"He's completely insane," 'Nathanson' agrees. "The only reason I was able to kill so many people back then is that there was still quite a lot of Gabriel Gray left in me. Without the ability to think in the long term or come up with contingency plans, I'd most likely have been put down like the rabid dog I was, before I'd racked up such an…impressive body count." His frank assessment of his past behavior is somewhat impressing to Matt.

"I hate to break it to you," 'Nathanson' continues, "but I don't have any abilities that could help with your situation. Have you tried asking Pete for help? He could borrow your ability and…" He trails off when Matt shakes his head.

"Peter isn't supposed to know what happened," Matt says. "Angela was very clear about that. She doesn't want him traumatized; she thinks he's too sensitive." Matt privately disagrees with Angela's opinion of her youngest son – not that he'll ever tell her that. For someone with such a passive power, the Petrelli matriarch is incredibly intimidating.

"You'd be surprised how much Pete knows," 'Nathanson' says. "Angela doesn't give him enough credit. But if you don't want him involved, we can help you figure something else out." He stares at Matt pensively. "What do you want done?"

"I want him gone," Matt says immediately, and his shadow seethes until he relents and adds, "And he wants his body back."

"Tough luck for Sylar, then," 'Nathanson' says. "There's no way I'm letting that kind of insanity back in my head." He smiles tauntingly, and Matt has a feeling the smile is meant for his shadow. "The thing is, Detective, Sylar doesn't just need my body. He needs me if he wants to make it more than a day without being captured. Unfortunately for him, I can get along just fine when I'm not an unhinged, bloodthirsty lunatic."

"_Liar!"_ Matt's shadow spits. _"I'm the special part of me. I'm NOTHING without me."_

"You're really not Sylar anymore," Matt states, a bit chagrined that it took him so long to realize this. "I mean, I know being Nathan affected you, but you really changed."

'Nathanson' raises his eyebrows in surprise at Matt's words. "I thought you would have read my mind and figured that out as soon as I let you in," he admits. "Why didn't you?"

Matt feels his ears heat up and knows they must be bright red from his embarrassment. "I didn't think I should," he says. "The last time I went in your mind without your permission, you woke up thinking you were someone else. You're the last person I'd eavesdrop on, after that."

"I appreciate that," 'Nathanson' says sincerely. "If you want to, though, I won't mind if you do."

With an invitation like that, Matt can't pass up the opportunity, and he leans forward, concentrating hard on 'Nathanson's' thoughts. He doesn't try to listen for anything specific – he stretches his consciousness until he's swamped by 'Nathanson's' personality. He lets it break over him in waves. There's a keen intellect and thirst for knowledge, a dry, sardonic sense of humor, a surprising protective attitude toward his loved ones – that he even has loved ones comes as a shock – and children, an unshakeable air of authority…and lots of guilt, funneled into a streak of responsibility a mile wide. He pulls his awareness back into the physical world and realizes that Micah is addressing him.

At Matt's blank look, Micah repeats himself. "Can Sylar take over your body?"

"No," Matt says, "He's just very annoying."

"_I think I'll kill you second,"_ his shadow threatens._ "I'll strap you to a chair and make you watch as I kill little Matty Junior. Doesn't that sound like fun, Parkman?"_

Micah nods and looks relieved. "Do you think Dot would help him?" he asks Nathanson. "I bet she would."

"I was about to suggest that," Nathanson says. He twitches his fingers and a pen and notepad fly off of a shelf and into his hands. He scrawls something on the top sheet and rips it off, folding it in half before handing it to Matt.

Matt accepts the paper uncertainly, surprised that his problem seems to have such an easy answer.

Nathanson correctly interprets the look on his face. "She likes shortbread cookies," he advises Matt. "You might want to pick up a tin before visiting. And brush up on your chess game. She'll probably challenge you to a match while you're there."

"So – she can get rid of him for me?" Matt asks. "For good?"

"Just like steel toed boots get rid of cockroaches," Nathanson affirms with relish. "Believe me, one little powerless maniac is no problem." He seems even more thrilled with the prospect than Matt.

"Okay," Matt says, and he stands, unsure of what to say. "I, uh. Thanks. Thanks a lot." He heads to the front door, glancing over his shoulder to make sure Nathanson doesn't have anything else to say or do before he leaves.

"Hey, Parkman," Nathanson calls out. He gets up and joins Matt at the door. "If you ever get the urge…feel free to drop by again." For the first time, a hint of uncertainty creeps into Nathanson's eyes, and Matt is sure that it's a holdover from when Nathanson was just Gabriel Gray. "I mean it. Any time."

"Thanks," Matt says again. He weighs his words carefully before saying, "I'd like that…Gabe."

A surprisingly sweet smile spreads across Nathanson's face, and he thumps Matt's shoulder companionably. "Take care of yourself…Matt." He gives Matt a gentle shove out the door and closes it behind him, still smiling.

Matt unfolds the paper and reads the three lines Nathanson scrawled across the page.

_Dorothea King_

_Corner of Milledge Terrace and Hope Avenue_

_Athens, Georgia_

"_You're never going to get rid of me,"_ his shadow threatens. _"If I can't have my body back, at least I can make your life a living hell until the day I die."_

"Shut up, Sylar," Matt says tolerantly, feeling remarkably lighthearted all of a sudden. He tunes out his shadow's bluster and heads for the elevators, his steps purposeful. He has a tin of shortbread to purchase, and a psychic to visit.


	2. Part 5: Claire Bennett

Baltimore, MD

Johns Hopkins University

On the first day of her art class, Claire is late. She runs as fast as she can, messenger bag thudding against her side, all the way from the library on the other side of the campus. She's in such a rush she doesn't even see the man walking ahead of her, and she plows into his back, knocking them both to the ground.

"Ow," the man says. His voice is muffled, and she realizes she has him pinned face down on the sidewalk. She scrambles off his back, mortified, and he rolls over. "Ow," he says again, but he smiles up at her and thrusts a hand in the air. "Give me a hand up, will you?"

"Ohmygod," she babbles. "I'm so, so sorry. I didn't even see you. I just – I shouldn't have been running. This is so embarrassing. Sorry!"

He interrupts her with a deep, rich chuckle, and drops his hand, getting to his feet unaided. "Don't worry about it," he reassures her. "Everyone is a little out of it the first week of classes." He brushes his knees off and again extends his hand. "Gabe Nathanson," he says by way of introduction. It's a little abrupt, but he flashes her a charming smile, and she grins back as she takes his hand.

"Claire Butler," she says in reply. His hand is warm and dry, and he has calluses on his fingertips. His hands are so much bigger than hers, she notices, and she wonders what it would be like to be tall and to have such long, wide hands. She thinks that most people her height wonder what being taller would feel like.

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Claire," he tells her, and there's something in the way he looks at her – like he means it, like he knows her – that makes her feel overexposed and completely safe and very, very confused. Then he lets go of her hand and the feeling slips away. "Now, what class were you on your way to so fast?"

Oh – _oh._ She looks around wildly, and her heart sinks when she realizes that most of the students have disappeared into the surrounding classrooms. "I have a life drawing class," she says hurriedly, and checks her messenger bag to make sure nothing has spilled out. "I think it's in this building, but I'm late, and I'm going to make such a bad impression on my professor, and she's going to hate me for the rest of the semester."

He puts one of those big hands on her shoulder, and it shouldn't be so calming, having a near stranger touching her, but that weird feeling of safety and comfort is back and she relaxes a little. "It's your lucky day, Claire Butler," Gabe says, and he starts walking down the sidewalk, hand still on her shoulder. "I'm on my way to the life drawing class as well. I'll be your TA for the semester."

The professor is very forgiving, and when she turns in her practice sketches at the end of the class, Gabe smiles at her. She hurries outside, clutching her sketchbook to her chest, and can barely stop herself from twirling around giddily. It's only the first day and she's already certain she's made a friend.

**

On the fifteenth day of her art class, Claire has a leisurely lunch with Gabe at Charles Street Market. She's complaining about her roommates in between bites of salad _nicoise_, and he's digging into his BLT with relish, nodding and making encouraging noises in the appropriate places. She fills the air with chatter, telling him all about how Jenny leaves wet towels everywhere and about Val's annoying habit of lying on the floor and sulking all day. She doesn't mind that Gabe isn't really listening. He seems happy enough just being talked at.

"And Jenny's boyfriend is a huge creep," she goes on, not totally faking the shudder she makes as she thinks about him. "He's always staring at me whenever he's in our room, and he hardly ever talks to us. He just sits and stares the whole time. Sometimes he's outside the door when I get back at night – waiting for Jenny, he says. Yeah, right."

Gabe puts his sandwich down and wipes his fingers clean on the paper napkins, one by one until all the shine of bacon grease has been removed. Then he looks at Claire very seriously. "Do you know any self defense?" he asks. "Your roommate's boyfriend sounds like a scumbag. I don't want anything to happen to you because you feel like you have to be nice to this guy." His eyes are so dark and intense Claire can't look away. She likes it better when the skin beneath his eyes crinkles up in the smile he never aims at anyone but her, but no matter what his expression is, he's still Gabe, and she knows – though she's not sure how – that she can always trust Gabe.

She reaches across the table and pats the back of his hand reassuringly. "I'll be fine," she promises. "I took a self defense class in high school." She didn't really, but she always wanted to, especially after Brody…well, after Brody. She doesn't want Gabe to worry, though, because when he gets worried his eyebrows draw together and he scowls ferociously and it's frightening to look at him.

But Gabe must be a human lie detector or something because he's getting that furrow in between his eyebrows that signals an impending worry fest. "Claire," he starts to say, and then he cuts himself off and stands up and holds out one of his hands to her. She grabs hold instinctively, and he leads her out of the café and down the sidewalk until they reach a relatively deserted patch of lawn. He lets her go and takes a few steps onto the grass. "Come here," he tells her, and when she's at his side again he takes hold of her right hand.

"What are you doing?" she asks him, watching him roll her fingers in tight against her palm. He positions her thumb across her first knuckle before answering.

"I'm going to teach you how to punch," he says, and steps behind her to pull her elbow up and back until her fist is almost in her armpit, thumb up and palm facing in. It's a little awkward, but no worse than anything she ever did in cheerleading. "Lock your wrist," he instructs her, his breath puffing warm on the top of her head. She follows his instructions obediently, and he closes his hand around the outside of her fist. He slowly extends her arm again until it's straight out in front of her, twisting her hand so that she ends with her palm facing down and her thumb is facing in.

She thinks it must look very intimate to anyone watching the lesson. Gabe is so tall and strong and handsome, and she's petite and beautiful and blonde, and she has her back pressed up against his chest and stomach, and his free hand is resting on her hip. He pulls her fist back again, and tells her, "Plant your feet." It feels like it should be intimate, or it would if they were different people. But she leans on him for support, and his hand is on her hip to help her balance, and the only warmth she feels when she thinks of him is the same happy glow she gets when she thinks of Peter. He extends her fist one more time, and then moves his hands to her shoulders. "Let's see your punch."

She jabs at the space in front of her a few times, and he stops her to correct the trajectory of her punches. "Aim for the solar plexus," he says. "You want to make sure they have to stop to recover their breath. It'll give you time to run." He moves in front of her and holds up his hand at the right height. "Hit my palm."

The first few punches she throws are halfhearted, because Gabe might be a grown man twice her size, but she doesn't want to hurt him even a little bit. The disappointed look he gives her is almost as bad as her dad's, and she gives in and hits harder. It's surprisingly fun, and Gabe isn't acting like he's in pain, so she shakes out her shoulders and grins at him and throws her weight behind the next round.

She loses track of the time, and when Gabe calls for a stop and tells her it's time to head to class, she wishes it was the weekend so she could keep hanging out with Gabe for the rest of the day without things like school interrupting their fun. He slings a friendly arm around her shoulders as they stroll across the lawn, and tells her, "Of course, there's an easier way to stop scumbag guys from taking advantage of you." He grins down at her and she beams up at him. "Grab his man parts and squeeze until something pops."

She shrieks in disgust and he laughs loudly. She doesn't think she'll tell him yet – maybe when she tells him the rest of her secrets – but she wishes she'd met him a few years ago. He's good at making her feel like nothing bad can ever happen to her as long as he's around.

**

On the twenty-eighth day of her art class, the student in the seat next to her takes the sketches from her hand too forcefully, and she gasps in shock at the sudden burn of paper slicing into her palm. She slaps her other hand over the cut quickly, hoping no one noticed, but all of a sudden Gabe is at her side, making excuses to the professor and hustling her out of the classroom – "We'll be back in a few minutes, just need to get this cut washed and dressed," Gabe says over his shoulder – and it's so surprising that she has no time to object.

"I'm okay," she tells him when he sits her down on a bench around the corner from the art building. "Really, it's just a paper cut."

He just looks at her for a long moment, so long and so intently that Claire is tempted to ask if she has something on her face. "I know," he says finally. "I thought you might like to get out and stick a band-aid on without anyone watching. That was pretty deep for a paper cut. From the way you reacted, I guarantee no one is expecting your hand to be injury-free when we go back in."

Claire gapes at him, struck speechless. She'd been so careful about making sure she didn't get hurt; she was certain she hadn't before today. He takes advantage of her shock to pull his wallet out and fish out a wrinkly band-aid. He peels off the backing and takes her hand and presses the bandage gently across the spot that the cut had been. "How did you know?"

He sighs and takes a seat next to her on the bench. "At the café last week," he says, and doesn't even need to finish his sentence, because Claire knows exactly what he's talking about. She'd been wearing shorts, and one of the servers had spilled boiling water on her lap. "Your legs weren't even red after you mopped yourself up."

Claire tucks her knees up under her chin and wishes she could disappear. It's not that she doesn't have faith in Gabe to keep being his wonderful Gabe self, but if he reacts badly she doesn't know what she'll do. "I can't get hurt," she says in a small voice. "I'm kind of a freak like that."

"Hey," he scolds her. "Don't say that. You're wonderful, Claire. You're not a freak." He tugs her against his side and she topples over in a little Claire-lump, and there's that warm and comforting embrace she's come to depend on to give her mood a boost. "You're special," he says, and she thinks that it sounds so much less awful when Gabe says it than when Sylar used to tell her that. He jostles her shoulder and she looks up into his smiling, squinty eyes. "Got it?"

"Got it," she repeats, and she lays her head on his shoulder.

"Watch," he whispers, and at a subtle gesture, her shoelaces untie and retie themselves into neat, symmetrical bows. He waits in expectant silence as she studies his handiwork. She doesn't know what to think or what to say. It can't be possible, she thinks, that almost every time she meets someone new they have abilities too. The odds are staggering – Gabe can't have done what he just did, because if he did, then there really is no such thing as coincidence, and she likes the idea that life can be random. His show and tell reminds her of when West flew her for the first time. This time, though, she's still on solid ground, and Gabe isn't likely to surprise her with a kiss.

She keeps all of this locked behind her teeth and says instead, "So your power is tying shoes with your brain?"

His startled laugh sounds sad to her ears, and she presses herself even closer into his side, hoping she can offer him the comfort he's so good at giving her. "No," he says, and he sighs heavily. "I have…empathy, I guess. I picked up a lot of different abilities before I realized how I could use it." He lets out another sad little laugh. "I wasn't the nicest person back then."

It's hard to imagine Gabe doing anything that would make him describe himself as "not nice". She wants to ask what else he can do, but she can tell that it's a touchy subject for him. She wonders if he can fly or shoot fire from his hands. She misses seeing her mom and dad's powers, misses the way her mom would light a cigarette with a finger, misses being flown across the country in her dad's arms. Her mom's fire is gone for good, she knows, though she can't help holding out hope that park rangers will find her dad someday soon.

Gabe ruffles her hair playfully, and when he speaks again it's in a deliberately cheerful voice that doesn't fool Claire for a second. "Ready to go back to class, Supergirl?" he asks. "Or do you want to be irresponsible and go get ice cream?"

"Let's play hooky," she replies, and when she jumps to her feet with more enthusiasm then she feels, she's rewarded by a real smile from Gabe that warms her all the way down to her toes. "I'm in the mood for java chip."

**

On the forty-ninth day of her art class, she and Gabe are about to head to the Paper Moon Diner for dinner when her dad calls. When she hangs up on him she can't remember his exact words, only that in between the static crackle of bad reception, he speaks in measured, sympathetic tones that slow her stride and bring a lump to her throat, and she knows she's never going to see her biological father again. She turns to Gabe with tears in her eyes and flings herself into his arms. He catches her up in a tight hug and she breaks down completely, bawling into his soft cotton jacket. He rocks her gently from side to side in silence.

The search was called off this morning. Her dad is written off as dead – presumed dead, she corrects herself, but it's not much of a difference when no one is looking for him anymore. It's the result she's refused to consider ever since August, when his rental car was found totaled in a ravine in the Rocky Mountains. Simon and Monty – oh God, her poor brothers. She hasn't thought about them for months. And this is going to kill Peter. She knows their loss is so much worse than hers, but it doesn't stop the feeling that her world is ending.

She cries harder, and when her legs give out, Gabe scoops her up and carries her like a child, one arm beneath her knees and the other around her back. She screws her eyes shut tight and buries her face in his neck, and the gentle up-and-down sensation of Gabe walking with her in his arms feels like the only good thing in her life at the moment. The sound of his footfalls change after a few minutes, and not long after that he stops and shifts her weight to one side. A car door opens, and Claire is tucked gently into a soft seat. Gabe buckles the seatbelt around her waist, and when he closes the door, she watches through her tears as he hurries around the front of his car to the driver's seat.

He tells her something – she's not sure what, and he doesn't seem to be expecting an answer. The engine revs noisily, and she lets herself weep against the window as he drives, and her ragged breaths fog the cool glass in little puffs. The turns and accelerations, the stops, accelerations, turns, turns, and stops lull her into an exhausted doze, and her eyes slide shut like there are weights attached to her eyelids. She barely stirs when Gabe parks the car and reaches across the space between their seats to unlatch her seatbelt for her.

"Can you make it to the elevator?" he asks her quietly, and she mumbles something that sounds like yes back to him. She's glad he understands her so well, because when he opens her door he catches her before she falls out, and it's only due to the unwavering support of his arm around her shoulders that she keeps from falling on the walk from the parking lot to the elevator to Gabe's apartment. She's dead on her feet by the time he steers her to his couch and helps her lie down.

Gabe and someone else are speaking above her, and at the stranger's worried question, Gabe murmurs a soft reassurance. She snuggles down into the cushions, and someone drapes a heavy blanket around her body. She wants to sit up and explain her misery to her friend, to let all her fear and despair and worries fly from her mouth in one breathless torrent, but she's so exhausted and the couch is so comfortable and she decides she's just going to nap for a little –

When she wakes up, the living room is dark and the sun has set. There's a light on down the hall, and she can hear Gabe and the stranger conversing in low tones. She stands up and folds the blanket carefully and walks quietly toward the sound of Gabe's voice. She finds him at the kitchen table poring over a folder full of blueprints. In the seat across from him a dark haired boy is working industriously at his own homework. "Hi," she says uncertainly, and Gabe and the boy both look up immediately.

"Claire!" Gabe exclaims, startled, and he gets to his feet to pull out a chair for her. "We saved you dinner if you're hungry–"

"Oh my God," she says, staring at the boy. She's seen him before – that night that Peter exploded over Manhattan. It can't be, but it is. It's Micah Sanders, and there's no good reason for him to be living with Gabe. "Oh my God!" She turns and looks at Gabe with new eyes.

That scar is her dad's. That nose and those eyes – those are…those are Sylar's. "No," she whispers. She backs away from him slowly.

Gabe – Sylar reaches out to her, face pained. "Claire," he starts to say, and she cuts him off.

"I can't believe you!" she cries out. She looks around the kitchen wildly, but the only thing she could use as a weapon are the kitchen knives, and she'd have to pass Sylar to get to them. "You monster! You killed my dad!" Out of the corner of her eye, she sees Micah slip silently from the room, a worried look on his face.

"I know I did," he says quietly, and he takes a cautious step in her direction. She backs up another step. "I've done a lot of bad things."

"You killed my mom!" she screams. "You ruined my life!" She turns and runs for the door, but he catches her around the waist before she can take more than a few steps. "Let go let go let go let go!"

"You don't have to believe me, Claire," he whispers into her ear. He holds her in place easily despite her desperate struggles to free herself. "You don't have to believe a word I say, but I'm so sorry for everything I've put you through."

"You–" She chokes on her anger. "You violated me," she accuses, and his hands tighten momentarily as he cringes. "I can't – I can't feel anything, and it's your fault."

"Of all the things I've done, that's the one I regret the most," he tells her. "You'll never know how much I wish I could take it all back." He finally lets her go, and she turns to face him. He's not crying, not like she is, but he looks devastated, and for a second she's savagely pleased with his unhappiness.

"You made me like you," she whispers, and she thinks this is the worst thing he ever did to her. "You bastard, you made me like you."

"I don't regret that one," he says. "I'm glad I could be there for you."

"I hate you," she says, and her voice breaks.

"I know," he says again. He makes an abortive movement toward her, then sighs and sits back down at the kitchen table. "Dinner's in the microwave," he tells her tiredly. "I'll drive you back to the dorms tomorrow morning. You can take my bedroom for the night; there's a lock on the inside of the door, if it would make you feel safer."

"No thanks. I'll take a cab," she says acidly, but she surprises herself by walking to the microwave and hitting reheat instead of doing the sensible thing and fleeing from his presence. She eats the reheated spaghetti standing up, not taking her eyes off Sylar until the bowl is empty and she's retreated to his bedroom and locked the door.

Her cell phone rings again, and the caller has a Manhattan area code. Her hands are shaking with adrenaline as she answers the call. "Hello?"

"Claire, dear," her grandmother says crisply. "Let's have a chat, shall we?"

**

The morning after her forty-ninth day of art class, Claire wakes to the smell of melted butter and hot syrup. She slides out from under the covers and follows her nose down the hall to the kitchen, where a pajama clad Micah is digging into a stack of waffles with gusto. Gabe is still in his pajamas too, and he has his back to her as he mans the waffle iron. She takes a seat quietly and shoots Micah a smile when he looks at her nervously.

"Good morning," she says softly, and Gabe whirls around, clutching a ladle still dripping with batter.

"Good morning," he replies, and he looks even more nervous than Micah, and it makes her want to laugh. "Do you want waffles?"

"I'd love waffles," she says. "Do you have jam?"

"There's strawberry jam in the fridge," Micah tells her. He hops from his seat to get it for her, and puts the open jar at the edge of her placemat.

Gabe keeps a careful distance between them as he puts a plate of steaming hot waffles in front of her. "I still hate you," she tells him.

"I know," he says, and when he turns to go back to the other side of the kitchen, she grabs his hand and concentrates hard on her memory of his impromptu self-defense lesson from a few months back, about how happy and safe and cared for she felt.

"I mean it," she says, and he smiles down at her with that special little smile that makes the skin under his eyes wrinkle up, and now that she knows what she's looking for she can finally identify the emotion in his eyes as fatherly love. She knows it's more than a little weird, but seeing that smile again makes her so happy she could burst.

"Eat your waffles," he orders her gently. She reaches for the jam and he turns back to the waffle iron and Micah hums a happy tune. And she's smiling too hard to eat a bite.


	3. Part 2: Peter Petrelli

New York, New York

_Recognition_

It takes Peter a while before he realizes the truth: Nathan isn't really Nathan, even though nobody wants to admit it. He hasn't been Nathan for a while now – not since that day in the hotel when Sylar tried to kill the President. When they killed Sylar.

When Sylar killed Nathan.

It isn't something Peter figures out right off the bat. Even after everything that's happened over the past few years, it's not enough to kill his inner idealist. When Mom doesn't treat Nathan any differently, when she brushes off Peter's concerns about the gaps in his brother's memories and the inconsistencies in his behavior, he does as she says and puts it out of his mind. She's family. She's his mother. Peter has always wanted to believe the best about his family.

There isn't anything odd in the way that Bennett watches Nathan. Bennett's overprotective streak towards Claire always kicks in to high gear around his brother, and after what Nathan did, it isn't too surprising that Bennett looks at Nathan like he's staring through a sniper's scope. And even though it's disappointing that Matt stopped returning his calls, Peter can understand that Matt wants to keep things as normal as possible for his son. If those were the only signs, he still wouldn't have a clue.

But it isn't just that. Nathan starts visiting him, and that's when Peter realizes there's more going on than what meets the eye. Well, no – that isn't completely true. He doesn't suspect anything at first. The first couple of weeks that he comes home from his shift to find Nathan waiting at his door with takeout, he chalks it up to his brother's need to make things right between them. Call him a fool, but he hasn't completely written off his brother just yet, and he always invites Nathan in for a couple hours of painfully awkward small talk over cartons of rice and curry.

He doesn't start suspecting something is wrong until after the tension between them eases, because that's when Nathan begins to ask questions about things he should already know the answers to.

Where did he go on tours of duty when he was in the Navy?

Is it Simon or Monty who is allergic to strawberries?

What is Heidi's father's name?

Has he always been right handed?

And then there are the worried admissions – Pete, I can't remember what I got Monty for his birthday. Pete, I don't remember Mom's maiden name. Pete, I fixed my watch and I don't know where I learned how to do it. Pete, I think I'm going crazy, Pete. There's something wrong with me, Pete.

He doesn't want to believe it. Things are finally getting back to normal – as normal as things ever get for them, anyway. It's possible that Nathan is just sick, or concussed, or suffering from very, very early onset Alzheimer's, which is troubling but not insurmountable. He voices his concerns to Mom when she drops by for a surprise visit, and she laughs off his worries. "Nathan is just under a lot of stress these days," she tells him. "Be glad your brother is turning to you for help," she says.

He is glad Nathan is turning to him. It's nice to be the brother with the answers for once. He and Nathan are getting along better than they have in years, so despite his better judgment, he ignores all the unsettling hints. It's Nathan, after all. His big brother is his friend again, his family is happy, and everything else is unimportant. He can speak his mind and offer his opinion, and Nathan actually listens.

Their unofficial takeout nights keep up through the start of baseball season. Nathan starts coming earlier and leaving later to make sure they have plenty of time to talk before they catch whatever game is playing on ESPN. Pretending everything is fine isn't the smartest thing Peter has ever done, but it's easier than actually thinking about what all his questions really mean.

Then during a late April shower, his television dies mid game when Nathan flings his hand up in disgust at a bad play. It dies with a sharp _snap_ and _pop_ that could be attributed to the fact that his set is old and it's raining outside. Or at least, it could if Peter hadn't seen lightning – Elle's lightning – shoot from Nathan's fingers to strike the rabbit ears on top of the television set. Peter watches Nathan stare at his hands in shock, and when Nathan ventures to say a cautious "Pete?" he finds he doesn't have a ready answer.

"Ask Mom," he tells the man wearing his brother's face, and for the rest of the evening Peter sits and studies him for signs of the monster that lurks beneath the surface.

Sylar doesn't come to the next takeout night. He calls from D.C. in the late afternoon to beg off – he's swamped with paperwork, he explains. Peter is relieved. He doesn't know how he'd handle seeing Sylar again now that he knows the truth. Odds are good he'd have tried to kill him on sight. He resigns himself to a long, lonely evening with just his thoughts for company.

There's no question that this is Matt's handiwork, but Matt never would have done it without being told to. It's no great stretch to figure out just where those orders came from. No wonder Bennett's always on edge around Nathan, and why Mom spends so much of her time in D.C. these days. It had to have been done quickly – he and Nathan had only been separated for a few minutes that day. He wonders whose corpse they burned in Sylar's place, and what they did with his brother's body. It hurts to think that Nathan could be lying in an unmarked grave somewhere.

His phone rings, and Peter closes his eyes and settles deeper into his armchair. The tinny chimes cut off and switch to voicemail soon enough, and Mom's voice issues from the speakers. "Peter, it's your mother," the speakers say. "Do you know if Nathan was planning to take a trip somewhere this weekend? Noah wants to have a word with your brother, but no one knows where he's disappeared to. If you know where he is, please call me back. It's very important." Then there's a click and a beep, and the message ends.

Peter shakes his head in disbelief. "Go to Hell, Mom," he says. He gets up and goes to the kitchen to erase the message from his answering machine. "Just…go to Hell."

_Restitution_

Peter finds Sylar in the last pew of Father Vance's church three days later when he goes in for his weekly confession. His hands – Nathan's hands – are clasped tight in front of him and his head – Nathan's head – is bowed in prayer. Peter hesitates for a moment before gritting his teeth in determination and sliding into the seat next to Sylar. He gathers his thoughts in silence and waits for Sylar to finish.

Eventually Sylar unclenches his hands and raises his head. His eyes are wet, and he gives them a rough swipe with the back of his hand before turning to acknowledge Peter. "Hey, Pete," he says quietly. His voice is rough, like he's been crying or shouting.

"Where did you go?" Peter asks him. "Mom and Bennett were both going crazy trying to find you."

"Georgia," Sylar says, "By way of New Orleans." He sighs deeply. "Pete – about that lightning–"

"What lightning?"Peter interrupts. He absolutely will not have this conversation, not in a church talking civilly like friends. If it has to happen he'd rather have it take place at the top of their lungs during an all-out brawl.

Sylar scrutinizes Peter's face and nods to himself like he's figured something out. "I didn't know until then. I swear, Pete. I didn't know." He says this as if it's supposed to make a difference.

"You don't know anything," Peter tells him stubbornly.

"Okay," Sylar says. "We'll do this your way." He doesn't look annoyed, just tired and strangely at peace. He stands up, and Peter stands as well to let him pass. "You want to stay for confession, or do you feel like walking with me? I have a train to catch back to DC."

Peter follows Sylar down the aisle back out to the street, and they start walking in the direction of the train station shoulder to shoulder – like brothers. He waits until they reach the corner before asking, "Why aren't you flying?"

Sylar hunches his shoulders and stuffs his hands deep in his jacket pockets. "I can't," he says, and he looks away. "I haven't been able to since the ligh– for four days," he amends.

"That's too bad," he tells Sylar. "I'm sure things will work out. They usually do." Sylar turns back, and Peter meets the skeptical look with one of Nathan's own impersonal politician's smiles. Sylar shakes his head in disbelief and leads the way across the street to the subway entrance.

Sylar pays for both of their tickets. They make it past the turnstiles just in time to board the C Train to Penn Station. They're lucky enough to get two seats together, and Peter's not sure if it's Sylar's telekinesis that's responsible, or if it's the somewhat intimidating effect of two very alpha male personalities in one body that's keeping the other passengers from crowding them. The train takes off with a rushing, roaring rattle, and Peter leans in to speak into Sylar's ear.

"Do you remember that Christmas we had when you were on leave?" he asks. "You'd been in Rwanda. I had no idea what was going on there, only that it was in Africa. Mom–"

"Ma convinced you I was flying around looking for treasure," Sylar says. He swallows heavily. Peter thinks he understands what he wants now. "She told you I was Indiana Jones in a flight suit."

"I was obsessed with Indiana Jones the whole time you were over there," Peter tells him. "And you were so tired when you came home for Christmas, but you stayed up after Mom's party to watch all three Indiana Jones movies with me anyway."

"You fell asleep halfway through the last one," Sylar says. "I carried you up to bed still in your party clothes."

"I was eleven," Peter says. "I was so happy to have you home for Christmas I didn't even care what I got for presents that year. But you–"

"But I got you a fur felt fedora, just like Indy's," Sylar finishes for him. His eyes are wet again. "You said it was the best Christmas you'd ever had."

"It was." He jostles Sylar's shoulder with his own, feigning a playfulness he doesn't feel. "Hey, how about that summer you graduated from Annapolis? Remember how you taught me to fly a kite?"

Sylar is pale, and where their shoulders touch Peter can feel him trembling. "You lost it up one of the trees on the front lawn," Sylar replies, and his voice is steady when he speaks. "I climbed up to get it for you." He fingers the scar on his chin unconsciously.

"One of the branches broke beneath you on the way down," Peter says. "You split your chin on a root when you hit the ground."

"You were so scared for me that you started crying," Sylar says. "I thought you'd gotten hurt too somehow."

"Even though your chin was gushing blood, you just got up and gave me a hug to calm me down. And as soon as the cut was stitched closed, you fixed up my kite and stuck it in my room." Peter bumps his shoulder against Sylar's again. "You were my hero when I was a kid."

"Pete," Sylar says helplessly, and his voice cracks. "Pete, I'm sor–"

"Don't," Peter interrupts. "Don't you dare." He glares fiercely at Sylar's shoes. "You owe me this much. At the very least, you owe me this."

Sylar falls silent. From the corner of his eye Peter sees him nod in assent.

"Do you remember when I was in preschool and got chicken pox?" Peter asks. "Man, I was so miserable. You stayed home from school for a couple days to keep me company."

"That was my senior year of high school," Sylar says quietly. "Dad was pissed that I skipped school, but no one else could keep you from picking at the scabs."

"We got calamine lotion all over the bathroom," Peter says.

"You got calamine lotion all over the bathroom," Sylar corrects him. He smiles faintly at Peter. "You were such a squirmy kid. Always moving."

"If I could go back in time and choose anyone in the world to be my older brother, I'd still choose you," Peter says. "No matter how bad things got between us after I grew up, you were still my idol."

"I never wanted to hurt you," Sylar tells him. "When you finished school, you had such different priorities. You were so independent. I was afraid you'd stop needing me the way you needed me as a kid."

"I always needed you, Nathan," Peter says. "You're my brother. I've never stopped needing you." His vision blurs and he blinks rapidly to clear his eyes. Sylar shifts at his side and very tentatively puts an arm around Peter's shoulders. It isn't fair – Sylar even smells like Nathan. Peter lays his head on Sylar's shoulder. "I love you, Nathan."

Sylar presses his forehead to the top of Peter's skull. "I love you too, Pete," he says gruffly, and Peter feels his hair grow damp beneath Sylar's eyes.

They finish the ride in silence, pressed together in mourning, held in place by lies. They are slow to separate when the stop at Penn Station is announced over the intercom. Sylar stands and offers a hand up to Peter.

"I think I'm just going to ride for a while," Peter says. He rummages through his pants pockets and pulls out a battered red and blue disc. It's an old campaign button from Nathan's congressional race, from the first shipment of merchandise sent to his office. Nathan had pinned it to his sweatshirt the day he opened the box of buttons. He'd told Peter to keep a hold of it – that it would be a piece of history. He hasn't left home without it since then. It's seen him through every day and night of the past three years.

"Here," he says, and holds it out to Sylar. "I think it's time you had it back."

Sylar takes the button and closes his fist around it in a white-knuckled grip. "Are you sure?" he asks. "I know it means a lot to you." Peter can tell by the sweat beading on Sylar's forehead that he knows all too well how much it means to him.

Peter nods. "Yeah," he says. "Keep it. I think it'll help you get a new perspective on things."

The train grinds to a halt. Sylar looks like he wants to say something, but the doors slide open and he follows the crowd off the train with one last look at Peter over his shoulder. Then the doors close behind him, and Peter is alone in a car full of strangers.

He rides the train all the way to Franklin Avenue before he gets off. The bright midday sun comes as a shock after such a long ride underground, and he stops to shade his eyes at the top of the stairs. A shove to his back from a fellow subway rider gets him walking again.

He has almost six hours to relive his childhood memories before Sylar gets back to Nathan's DC apartment. Then he's just a phone call away. Peter knows Sylar won't turn down a request to reminisce with him, and he has plenty to reminisce about.

_Release_

The knock at Peter's door comes on a stiflingly hot night during late July. Through the peephole he can see Sylar standing outside. He's thinner, and the skin beneath his eyes is paper thin and bruise colored – signs of stress and sleepless nights. He has Nathan's old duffel bag slung over his shoulder. The corner of an American Airlines ticket sticks out from his jacket pocket. Peter opens the door.

"Hey, Pete," Sylar says. His mouth twitches like he's trying – and failing – to smile. "I hope I didn't wake you up."

"It's too hot to sleep," he says. He steps into the hall and shuts his door behind him. "Going somewhere?" he asks, casting a look at the duffel bag.

"Colorado," Sylar tells him. He hikes the bag's strap higher on his shoulder. "My flight leaves in a few hours. I thought I'd stop over to tell you goodbye before I left."

"Remember when you and Heidi took me to Aspen on vacation?" Peter asks. "We were so bad at skiing. Heidi got so sick of watching us fall all over ourselves she spent the whole weekend on the black diamond course without us." He holds his breath and waits for Sylar to take up the story, but –

"Pete," Sylar says softly. "I'm leaving." He drops the duffel bag to the floor and takes a step toward Peter.

"The heating went out in our cabin," Peter says. "Remember? We ended up all sleeping on the rug in front of the fireplace to keep from freezing." Sylar has to add to the story. If he doesn't, he's breaking their unspoken agreement. They're not done. They can't be done.

"Peter, stop."

"You can't leave," he tells Sylar. "Your term isn't even up." He's grasping at straws, he knows, but there has to be something – anything – that will keep Sylar from disappearing like a thief into the night.

"It's not my term," Sylar says, so gently it hurts. "It's not my life. I can't keep playing this part, Pete. It's hurting you. It's hurting Ma – Angela. I know you think it's not true, but until I'm gone you'll never really mourn his death."

"They'll only find you and make you come back," Peter says. "Parkman will probably make it permanent next time."

"That's a risk I'll just have to take," Sylar says. Fourteen floors down, a car horn blares. "That's my driver," he tells Peter. "I have to go."

"You're all I have left of my brother," Peter says desperately. "Please. Please don't go. If you leave, he's gone for good."

Sylar closes the distance between them to pull him into a strong hug. Peter clutches at Sylar's back and breathes in his brother's scent – a masculine blend of sweat and woody-herbal cologne – for the last time. "He loved you," Sylar says roughly. "Never forget that he loved you." Sylar's arms are like iron bars around his ribs, and he's squeezed tight. Three more words are whispered into his ear: a name and a city.

Then he's released, and he falls to his knees in the middle of the hall, listening to Sylar's footsteps recede into the distance. He drags himself slowly to his door, and when he turns to lean back against it, something hard clacks against the wood. He reaches behind him and feels a round metal button attached to his tee shirt.

He unpins it with some difficulty. When he has it in his hands he doesn't know whether to laugh or cry. It's Nathan's campaign button, and there's a scrap of paper stuck to the bar. He works it free and holds it close to his eyes to read the cramped writing.

_Pete –  
Thanks for the perspective.  
G.G._


	4. Part 4: Mohinder Suresh

New York, New York

Reed Street Laboratories

"Your blood cell count is back within normal parameters, so I think it's fair to say we can rule out a virus. However, the dizziness and the tingling in your extremities you say you're experiencing do seem to indicate that you aren't yet out of the woods, my friend. I don't wish to impose on your time, but if you'd be willing to have an MRI taken, I'm sure it would reveal something we've missed." Mohinder looks up from his microscope expectantly and is greeted by the sight of an empty chair.

He sighs. Hiro has disappeared yet again. Mohinder is not yet certain whether Hiro is disobeying his instructions about teleporting, or if his reluctant patient is taking advantage of his tendency to monologue in order to sneak out the door while he's otherwise occupied. He's of two minds as to which he'd prefer it to be; the former is worrisome, but the latter has an insulting sting to it. That's not to say that he holds such thoughtless behavior against Hiro, of course. His friend is far too good natured to be so rude on purpose. Rather, Hiro is simply driven to follow his instincts wherever (and whenever) they may lead him.

It is unfortunate that this tendency of Hiro's, his single-minded quest to save the world, may be the very thing that ends his life if he doesn't slow down and face what is happening to him. Obstinacy is a trait that most of the evolved humans he's encountered seem to share, and those who have ties to the Company, be it through employment or family, are gifted with that vexing quality in spades.

Still, there is something to be said for bullheaded determination. The Company may have been reformed as a kinder and gentler institution, but Angela Petrelli and her iron will didn't disappear along with her super powered cabal of mentally unbalanced kidnappers. If anything, she is even more active, reaching out to old acquaintances in both high and low places to deliver unpleasant reminders of favors she is owed. Mohinder doesn't want to know exactly how high she had to reach to have his laboratory put to rights, though given the nervous half-bow the landlord had made when he handed over the keys to the front door, he suspects it may well have been a stratospheric height.

He looks about the laboratory and marvels once again at the extent of the clean up job that was done to his space. The tables have been set to rights, the shattered glass swept up and discarded, the equipment replaced by even higher end models. There isn't so much as a cobweb to remind him of the foolhardy decision he made last year. Even so, he hardly needs a visual reminder to feel the flush of shame at his actions. This loft has been witness to more than its share of senseless violence, and when he filled the vacancy at Bishop's urging, he'd never imagined that he of all people would contribute to the bloodshed.

Stubborn idiocy is apparently part and parcel of having an ability, he thinks ruefully. He would have been much better off had he simply resisted the urge to use himself as a guinea pig for his untested formula. His behavior during those months leaves a bitter flavor in his mouth that tastes suspiciously like hypocrisy. They're all hypocrites, really – not the children, of course, but the rest of them are all old enough and intelligent enough to know that they've all done horrific things in the name of making the world a better place. He experimented on unwilling subjects to find a cure for himself. Nathan had them hunted like animals. Matt tortured Noah Bennett for information. Bennett helped Danko in exchange for his daughter's freedom. Angela and Arthur Petrelli thought they could tame a monster to use as a weapon and hunting dog. And Sylar – Sylar is a subject best left untouched.

It isn't surprising that he so rarely leaves the lab these days. After experiencing the reality of having the abilities he so coveted in his friends and allies, he much prefers to keep his head down and play at being the powerless scientist he once was. As long as he remembers to use a light touch, and avoids handling anything breakable when he's angry, it's easy enough to pretend he doesn't have the strength of ten men. He is left alone for the most part; aside from Hiro and Peter, no one is beating a path to his door anymore. The only other visitor he's had is Angela Petrelli, who dropped in on him the day the keys were returned to him. She came not to ask him to reconsider his stance on the Company but to give him a path to redemption. "Find a cure for Kaito Nakamura's son," she exhorted him. Find a cure, indeed. Perhaps if Hiro would consent to sitting still for longer than fifteen minutes at a time – but that is ungracious of Mohinder. His friend's quixotic behavior is a refreshing change from his own cynicism, and he will work within his limited means with pleasure if it keeps Hiro from becoming as jaded as the rest of them.

He turns back to his journal to document the result of Hiro's latest samples before he becomes too sidetracked. _10 September 2009_, he writes at the top of the page. _Urinalysis reveals normal levels of ketone bodies. WBC/RBC count remains within normal range – higher than average nitrogen levels. Patient complains of paresthesia and vertigo. Pain in elbow and shoulder joints._ He taps the capped end of his pen against his lips thoughtfully before giving up and writing _???_ beneath the entry. The most irksome aspect of his quest for a cure is that everyone seems to forget that he is not, in fact, a medical doctor. If Hiro's ailment was one that could be analyzed and diagnosed through the study of his DNA, he would be cured already, but it's looking more and more likely that the illness is due entirely to external influences.

The door to his lab opens and shuts with a bang, and Mohinder doesn't even need to look up to know who has arrived. "You are aware that normal people knock first, aren't you?" he asks. He feigns irritability, but he can't quite stop a smile from stealing across his face when he looks up from his journal.

"I haven't been normal for years," Peter says flippantly. He crosses the room with long strides and flings himself into Hiro's vacated seat. Mohinder is relieved to see that light has returned to his eyes – after Nathan disappeared, there were moments when it seemed that Peter might never recover from the loss, but once he began leaving town every other weekend, he appeared to bounce back almost miraculously.

"Please," he says dryly, "make yourself at home."

As usual, Peter pays his poor mood no mind. "Mom's being impossible," he tells Mohinder. "She just won't admit that reforming the Company is a bad idea."

'Bad' isn't necessarily the word Mohinder would use to describe the new Company. 'Atrocious' or 'catastrophic' seem much more apropos. Still, Peter prefers it when Mohinder plays Devil's advocate rather than offer a sympathetic ear. "At least they're no longer capturing and detaining evolved humans," he points out. "That in itself is a vast improvement."

"I agree with you about that," Peter says, "but I'm not sure if sending teams out for meet and greets is any better. They're just collecting information and leaving agents behind to monitor their homes and offices." He looks deeply suspicious at this. "I can't help thinking they're stockpiling all this data to use as a dragnet in the future. Get them all in one go, you know?"

The thought has already occurred to Mohinder, though for the sake of his own sanity he tries not to dwell overmuch on the inner workings of Angela and Bennett's minds. "Anything is possible," Mohinder says. "However, I'm doubtful that they would go to such lengths to provide for long term surveillance if they're only going to bring in everyone in the end."

"Maybe," Peter says doubtfully, and much to Mohinder's relief he drops the line of discussion. His relief is short-lived, however, as Peter spies the open journal and segues abruptly to a new subject. "How's your work going? Are you making any progress on Hiro's illness?"

"I've been able to rule out several possibilities," Mohinder says. "Unfortunately, his symptoms cover a lot of territory, and there's only so much I can do when he disappears mid-session." He knows he sounds peevish, but he can't help himself. The past several months have seemed interminable, and though he in no way misses the 'excitement' of being on the run, he has felt at loose ends at times since his fugitive status was lifted and he resumed his life. It is long, thankless days like this that make him wish for a task that would produce immediate – and gratifying – results upon completion.

Peter leans across the table and attempts to read Mohinder's handwriting upside down. "Weird," he mutters after a minute.

"What?" Mohinder asks. "Do you recognize the symptoms?"

"I do," Peter tells him solemnly. "Irritable, deprived of sunlight, bored – when was the last time you took a vacation, Mohinder?"

"I suppose you aren't counting the time we were the subjects of a nationwide manhunt," Mohinder shoots back, ignoring Peter's teasing smile. He leaves unvoiced that the closest thing to a vacation he's had in years is a road trip during which he was blissfully oblivious to the true identity of his passenger until it was far too late.

"If that's your idea of a vacation, then I'd hate to see what else you consider a good time," Peter says. "Seriously, you're working yourself into the ground. Take a few days for yourself. It'll do you good."

"I can't abandon my research," Mohinder protests. "I'd be doing Hiro a disservice if I just took off for a weekend of mindless fun and entertainment." He holds up a hand to forestall any objections Peter might offer. "And even if I did decide to indulge myself and take a brief vacation, I have absolutely no idea where I'd go. It's too expensive to go back to Chennai for a long weekend, and while there are plenty of people I could visit, they aren't the sort I'd enjoy interacting with just for the pleasure of it."

"You have a point," Peter says grudgingly. He plants his elbows on the table and props his chin in one palm, seemingly deep in thought.

Mohinder takes advantage of his silence to transfer the slide of Hiro's blood from the microscope to a shelf in the laboratory refrigerator. He knows Peter means well, but being on the receiving end of any Petrelli's good intentions is something of a gamble – there's a chance things will turn out very well, but more than likely it will all end in disaster. He double-checks the other samples to ensure that they're sorted the way they should be and shuts the refrigerator door once he's satisfied that everything is in its proper place.

"I can't believe I'm going to suggest this," he hears Peter mumble to himself.

"Suggest what?" Mohinder asks. He's never heard Peter sound quite like that before – at once both appalled and deeply, thoroughly amused. It's enough to pique his interest in spite of his resistance to Peter's suggestion.

"I'm going to Baltimore to visit a friend this weekend," Peter tells him slowly. Humor appears to have won out over consternation, because Peter has that insufferable look on his face that he gets when he's trying too hard to hide his amusement. "You're welcome to come with me, if you like." A tiny chuckle escapes his mouth. "I'm sure it would help you get some – perspective – on your problem."

"Who are you going to go see?" Mohinder asks. He berates himself silently when Peter's eyes light up at his question.

"So you're going?" Peter jumps to his feet eagerly. "Great! I'll get another ticket for you."

"Wait," Mohinder protests. "I never said I was going with you."

"I'll swing by tomorrow morning to pick you up," Peter tells him. "Don't forget!"

Mohinder watches in dismay as Peter disappears back out the door the same way he entered – with a jarring bang. Then, with another heavy sigh, he pushes back from the table to go and begin packing, once again cursing obstinacy to the highest heavens.

**

Baltimore, MD

Gabe Nathanson's Apartment

"Remember what I said," Peter tells Mohinder once again. "He might seem familiar to you, but–"

"But if I recognize him, try to judge him for who he is, not who he's been in the past," Mohinder recites. "Yes, Peter. I was listening the first ten times you brought this up."

"You're forgetting the other part," Peter says. "Don't, for the love of God, do anything stupid." He raps his knuckles against the door, and before Mohinder can formulate a suitable retort, the door swings open and Micah Sanders sticks his head out.

"Peter!" Micah exclaims. His gaze lands upon Mohinder, and his enthusiasm dampens visibly. "Hello, Dr. Suresh," he says politely. "Please come in." As Mohinder steps into the apartment he hears Micah say to Peter in an undertone, "Did you tell him?"

"I may have skipped a few important details," Peter whispers back. He clears his throat and says in a louder voice, "Is Gabe here?"

"He's on the phone," Micah tells him. "Did you bring it?" He grins when Peter holds up an unlabeled CD in a slim jewel case.

"Burned it off of Bennett's laptop," Peter says. "Names, photos, personal information, and surveillance videos for the Great Lakes region." He holds it just out of reach when Micah tries to take it. "Say it first, buddy."

"Peter is the best," Micah says, rolling his eyes, and Peter hands over the CD. "Thanks. This'll help a lot."

While Peter and Micah chat, Mohinder drifts over to examine the bookshelves lining the wall. Peter's friend, whoever he is, appears to be a self-styled Renaissance man, for there doesn't seem to be a single field of study that isn't represented by at least one thick book. The bookcase dedicated to India is amazingly well rounded; there aren't just travel guides and books on Hindi culture, but also an impressive array of historical and religious texts as well. There's even a copy of the Mahabharata on one of the shelves, tucked between a cookbook and a book of aerial photos of the Ganges River.

Something on the other side of the room gleams, and Mohinder turns to see what caught his eye. In the corner of the room is a bookcase with trinkets and mementoes filling the shelves as well as an eclectic assortment of books that seem out of place amidst the orderly rows of scholarly texts that take up the rest of the shelf space. The gleam comes from a snow globe of the Manhattan skyline, and silvery glitter swirls around the Empire State Building in lazy spirals, as if someone has recently shaken it. He crosses the room for a closer look at the rest of the contents. A book titled Lightning: Physics and Effects has pride of place in the center of the top shelf. Next to it is a Japanese-English dictionary, and beside that, two copies of Activating Evolution, one in English and one in Spanish.

The hair on the back of his neck prickles. These items seem too familiar by half. He stoops to take a closer look at the items on the lower shelves, but a new voice makes itself heard before he can lose himself in contemplation.

"Knight to queen's rook," Peter's friend says, and Mohinder straightens to get a good look at the man they've come to see.

His first impression is one of strength; Gabe Nathanson is tall and broad-shouldered, and he stands with a proud and upright posture – he holds a cordless phone up to his ear rather than cradle it between cheek and shoulder. Gabe darts a quick glance around the room, and when his eyes light on Mohinder, there is a flash of awareness in his gaze that confirms Mohinder's belief that his mysterious host is a very intelligent individual. "I'm going to have to call you back," he says into the phone. "Peter got here, and it looks like he brought a friend." He pauses and laughs. "Yes, exactly. Goodbye." He ends the call and tosses the phone onto the sofa.

Gabe takes his eyes off Mohinder and turns to greet Peter, who apparently forgot Micah entirely the moment his friend walked into the room. "Hey, Pete," Gabe says fondly. He opens his arms in invitation, and Peter bounds across the living room floor to cling to his friend. "How are you holding up?" Gabe murmurs in a voice meant for Peter's ears only. Peter's answer is even quieter, and Mohinder looks away to give them a semblance of privacy.

"So you're an old friend of Peter's, I take it," Mohinder says when Peter breaks the hug.

Peter and Gabe exchange meaningful looks. "Something along those lines," Gabe says after a long moment. "At times it seems like I've known Peter all his life." He goes back to scrutinizing Mohinder with his dark, hypnotic eyes. The experience is remarkably similar to what a field mouse must feel when a bird of prey trains its gaze on it. The intense stare lifts before he starts feeling too uncomfortable. "You didn't tell him," Gabe says abruptly to Peter. "And you say I have a cruel sense of humor."

Peter looks unfazed. "I never would have been able to get him down here if I'd told him," he replies. "And anyway, he really did need a vacation."

"Just keep on making excuses, Pete," Gabe says, shaking his head. "We both know you didn't do this for him."

Mohinder watches in confusion as Peter approaches Gabe again, this time to put a hand on his shoulder. "Yeah, you're right," he admits. "I did it for you." There's a faint flash of light where Peter's palm rests against the seam of his friend's shirt sleeve.

"You know this has a snowball's chance in Hell of working the way you want it to," Gabe says. Peter shrugs, and Gabe sighs. "Fine. But just so we're clear, if he kills me it's your fault."

Mohinder clears his throat impatiently. "Perhaps an introduction is in order?" he prompts Peter testily.

"No need," Gabe says. "We've met." His stance changes subtly, as if he's bracing himself for an imminent attack. "Hello, Mohinder," he says in a silky voice that Mohinder recognizes instantly.

Sylar.

Mohinder lunges at him wildly, only to find himself suspended mid-leap by Peter's outstretched hand. "You!" he spits. "How are you even alive? Never mind – I'll kill you myself." He struggles helplessly against the telekinetic hold Peter has on his body.

"And this is why it's never a good idea to spring unpleasant surprises on people with a tendency toward violent behavior," Sylar says conversationally to Peter. "You really should have thought this one out better. The last time we bumped into each other unexpectedly, he turned my face into raw hamburger."

"Put me down!" Mohinder demands. If he weren't so furious he'd be humiliated at having been frozen in place like this.

"Do I need to get out the tarp?" Micah asks, and Sylar and Peter both laugh.

"I doubt it," Sylar tells him. "Go do your math homework, okay kiddo?" Micah nods and ducks out of the room with one last amused look at Mohinder's plight. Sylar turns back to Mohinder and says, "Do you think you can resist the temptation to kill me? You look awfully uncomfortable hanging there."

"I'm sure I can manage," Mohinder snaps, and at another gesture from Peter he's set back on his feet. "Aren't you supposed to be dead?"

"That's what I hear," Sylar says. "Funny how things work out, isn't it?"

"That's not quite how I'd put it," Mohinder retorts. "How can you stand there and treat him like your friend?" he asks Peter. He feels inexplicably wounded by the revelation.

Peter and Sylar sober and exchange another of their infuriating glances. "Parkman did me the biggest favor of my life," Sylar says. "Though I doubt that's how he intended it."

"When Sylar tried to kill the president to take his place, he – he, ah." Peter trails off.

Sylar picks up the thread. "I killed Peter's brother," he says bluntly, shooting Peter an apologetic glance as he speaks. "Parkman used his telepathy to make me believe I was Nathan Petrelli. My old memories started breaking through after about a month and a half."

This timeline seems incredibly fishy to Mohinder. If what Sylar says is true, then he spent over three months as Nathan with full knowledge of his true identity without killing, maiming, terrorizing, or otherwise causing mayhem. "He killed your brother and you befriended him?" Mohinder asks Peter skeptically. "For God's sake, why? And don't tell me it's complicated."

"It's simple, actually," Peter says. "Gabe might have Sylar's body, but he has my brother's soul." He says this as if stating an incontrovertible fact.

Mohinder tamps down the urge to mention that he's not all that fond of Nathan Petrelli, either. "What makes you believe that?" he asks instead. To his surprise, it is Sylar rather than Peter who answers his question.

"Your father told me once that he believed that if there was such a thing as a soul, it could be found in the brain," Sylar says. "I have Nathan's morals, his memories and the emotions he associated with them, even his taste in food and music." He meets Mohinder's accusing glare squarely. "It's fair to say that in the end, Nathan is the one who killed Sylar, rather than the other way around."

"That's all well and good for you," Mohinder says dubiously, "but where does that leave everyone else? Many of the people you killed had families. It's not right that you've been given a free pass while your victims are still out there suffering."

"That's why I brought you here," Peter says. "There's nothing that Gabe can do to make everything magically better, but–"

"But I can do my best to try to make amends," Sylar interrupts.

"What makes you think I'd ever forgive you?" Mohinder asks.

Sylar quirks a half-smile at him. "Would an apology change your mind even a little?" he asks in reply.

"Not a chance," Mohinder says quickly, and Sylar nods, unsurprised.

"Then stay for the weekend," he says. The earnestness in his voice throws Mohinder off balance; it's a trait he's never associated with Sylar. "Please. Let me try to convince you that I've changed. Let me show you what we're working on."

Mohinder's immediate instinct is to refuse flat out, but Peter looks at him with such hope that he can't say no. "Very well," he says with resignation. "Though I doubt anything you say will change how I feel."

"I'm not asking for anything more than a chance," Sylar says, looking relieved. He nods at Mohinder gratefully and walks past him to the corner bookcase.

"Just for curiosity's sake," he asks Peter, "What did Micah mean by asking if he should fetch a tarp?"

Peter chuckles. "It's one of the Rebel Base home rules," he says. "Micah and Gabe came up with a whole list when they moved in back last month. That one is rule four: no violence in the apartment. If you can't manage that, keep it clean. If you can't do that either, put down a tarp first."

Mohinder can't help laughing at that. "Do they really need those kinds of rules?" he asks Peter, who shrugs and attempts to look mysterious.

Sylar rejoins them, a thin folder in his hands. "Pete and I have been working on this for a while," he starts. "It will take a few years to finish, but we're pretty sure this is the best way to help others like us." Mohinder takes the proffered folder and opens it to see page after page of blueprints. "We were thinking of calling it The Shanti Center," Sylar says. "Tell me, Mohinder – how do you like that as a name?"

It takes a few tries to get his voice working again. "I think – I think my father would like that."

**

Feedback would be a lovely thing. Otherwise I feel like I'm soliloquizing on an empty stage, and there's no one in the audience.


	5. Part 10: Angela Petrelli

December 12, 1985

Angela dreams. The part of her mind that is aware of this takes note of the bright sky and the green leaves of the trees visible through the sitting room windows. It is summer, or a dream about summer, or it is summer in the dream – the subtle distinctions are beyond her dream-self. In the dream she accepts a cup of tea from Nathan and smiles at him fondly as he takes the seat next to her on the sofa. He is older in this dream, with the lines of middle age just beginning to draw themselves on his face.

"I wish you would reconsider your decision to not run for re-election," she tells him, and the words have a worn sound to them, as if she's repeated the sentence a dozen times before.

"I'd rather leave office knowing I've taken care of the mess I made than have my constituents show me just how badly I let them down when I'm defeated by a landslide," he responds.

"Nonsense," she says dismissively. "The American public has a very short memory. More people associate you with exposing and bringing down Building Twenty Six than with–"

"Than with flagrant abuse of anti-terrorism resources and illegal detainment of American citizens?" Nathan supplies. He chuckles at her involuntary grimace, and though his eyes are clear the corner of his mouth twists his smile into a self-deprecating smirk.

"You had only good intentions," she protests. "I know you still have friends on the Hill. If you wanted to put in the effort, you could get yourself re-elected."

"When I compare that to the fact that there's a very important group of people who still consider me persona non grata, it's not hard to figure out where my priorities should lie." Nathan shakes his head. "I have a lot of reparations to make, and they aren't the kind that I can make from behind a desk."

"You're a good man, Nathan," she says proudly. "You bring me so much joy."

"I love you too, Ma," he says.

They fall into a companionable silence, broken only by the clink of cup against saucer as Angela sips her tea.

_In the physical world, Angela snuggles deeper beneath her winter weight blankets. Between one breath and the next –_

Her dream-self finishes the tea, and Nathan stands to stare out the window, hands clasped behind his back.

_Another breath –_

He clears his throat. "Ma," he says, "you never answered me."

"About what, dear?" she asks absently.

"I asked you once to tell me if you could prove that not everyone was a monster like me," he says, and when he turns back from the window his face begins to warp and ripple.

She gasps in horror, and her dream-self is frozen in place, incapable of running or screaming or even closing her eyes.

"Do you have an answer for me now?" a stranger asks.

_She jolts awake with her heart in her throat. After a moment of disorientation she remembers where and when she is. She is safe in bed. Arthur is sound asleep at her side. Down the hall, Nathan is also slumbering, worn out from a long day of chasing his four year old brother around the grounds. It hasn't come to pass; it may never come to pass. She closes her eyes and commits the dream to memory. This, she shall keep to herself. Perhaps when the time is right, she will have an answer for the stranger who will take her son's life._

March 4, 1990

Angela is dreaming of a parking lot. The sun has been down for hours in her dream; there is only one vehicle in the entire lot, and it is parked in a faint puddle of light beneath a street lamp that buzzes and flickers. A young man not long out of puberty leans against the driver's side door smoking a cigarette. Another man materializes out of the darkness, and when the street lamp lights his face, Angela is shocked to see that it is the stranger from her dream over four years ago. The youth looks up and drops his cigarette in surprise.

"Hey, you're Claire's friend," the youth says nervously. "Gabriel, right?"

The stranger – Gabriel, she tells herself – flings out his hand, and the youth yells out as invisible hands pin him to the side of his car. "Didn't your mother ever teach you that no means no?" Gabriel asks. The lightness of his voice is a brittle candy coating that does nothing to disguise his menace.

"I don't know what you're talking about," the youth denies. There is panic in his eyes that tells a different story.

With his free hand, Gabriel reaches into his coat pocket and fishes out a paper – a sonogram, Angela realizes upon closer inspection. "Congratulations," he tells the youth. "It's a boy." He tosses the sonogram at the youth's feet in disgust.

"Hey, man, she came on to me," the youth protests. "It's not like it hurt her or anything," he adds, and Gabriel's eyes fill with murderous intent.

"It didn't hurt her?" Gabriel parrots. "You're a sick piece of work, you know that?"

"She healed up quick enough, didn't she?" the youth argues.

_Angela rolls over in her sleep._

"Claire is a special girl," Gabriel says. "But don't think for a minute that just because she can heal, what you did to her had no effect." He twitches his fingers, and the youth's jaw snaps shut. "No more excuses. Shut up and listen," he orders the youth. "So many people have put her through hell that I've lost count of who and what. No matter what has happened to her, though, she still kept her innocence. And then you came along." He makes a grabbing gesture with his free hand. The youth lets out a high pitched whine from between clenched teeth.

_In the real world, Arthur throws a heavy arm across her waist, and she burrows into his embrace._

"She's like a daughter to me," Gabriel continues, "and you succeeded where no one else could. You finally stole her innocence. It might be too late for Claire, but I'm going to make sure you never hurt anyone else's little girl ever again." With a grim, satisfied look, he clenches his hand. A patch of blood blossoms on the front of the youth's jeans, and Gabriel releases his telekinetic hold.

"He's all yours, Noah," Gabriel says over the youth's moans, and he disappears back into the night.

_When Angela wakes up, she goes to her desk and takes out a sheet of her best stationery. _"Gabriel," _she writes._ "Teach my granddaughter to defend herself."_ Then she seals it in an envelope and tucks it away in a desk drawer to send when the time is right. It isn't until she is seated on the balcony drinking a bracing cup of coffee that she remembers that Claire hasn't been born yet. Waiting for the world to catch up to her dreams is always a frustrating game._

November 3, 2006

Angela dreams that Peter is sitting in a board meeting with Gabriel and a handful of other people. The room is spacious and painted a crisp white, and the bright spring sun pours in from between the window curtains to paint a buttery stripe across the table and walls. Through the open window she can hear birdsong.

"So what are we looking at for fall?" Gabriel asks Peter.

Peter clears his throat and sits up straighter. "All of the families who toured the Center are interested in enrolling their kids in the after school program," he says, "but only eight want to put their kids with us full time." He grins across the table at a pretty black woman. "You're going to have your hands full, Monica. The Pierson kids are on the list for full time enrollment."

Monica groans theatrically. "I'm not going to have a classroom left after those two get through with me," she jokes.

"I'm sure you'll manage," Gabriel says with a smile. "Tracy?"

A blonde woman flips through a few pages in a binder before replying. "A survey of our clients shows that most of them are strongly opposed to opening the Center to the public," she says. "Also, the majority of those receiving outpatient counseling say that they find the service 'very satisfactory', though a few feel that their issues aren't being addressed well enough." She shrugs. "The 'unsatisfactories' are mainly from older clients who were assigned younger counselors."

"Reassign Dot to those clients," Gabriel tells her. She nods and makes a note in her binder. "How are things on your end, Mohinder?"

"You'll be pleased to know that Simon and West have called an end to their little feud," Chandra Suresh's son says. "I have a feeling that all that wind burn has cooled their tempers." Peter and Gabriel laugh.

_Angela flops onto her back and lets out a soft snore._

"See you all back here next week," Gabriel says, and there is a loud scraping sound as everyone shoves back their chairs to stand.

_Her eyelid twitches in her sleep._

Peter and Gabriel are alone. "Not bad for a day's work," Peter says with a grin.

"No, it's not half bad," Gabriel agrees. He claps Peter on the back. "I'm on my way to pick up Noah from daycare. Want to come with?"

"Like you even have to ask," Peter says.

_Angela wakes slowly and relaxes back into her pillows. A sense of calm fills her for the first time in days. She rolls over to look at the family photo on her bedside table, and smiles at the static image of her youngest son. Today she will have to play her part without hesitation, ruthless until the end, but when Peter is a radioactive beacon in the sky, she will be able to rest easy knowing that he has a future beyond the nightmare that tonight will bring._

April 8, 2007

Angela dreams of Kaito Nakamura's son. He's significantly older than the last time she set eyes on him – in his late twenties, at least. In the dream he is lying flat on his back in a small hyperbaric chamber. There is a stack of comics at his side, and he holds one of the issues above his head to read it. A very bored looking Mohinder Suresh is seated at the other end of the room, flipping through a scientific journal.

Hiro sighs and sets down the comic book. "Doctor Suresh?" he calls out. "How much longer?"

"Another fifteen minutes," Suresh replies without looking up. "You know that." He frowns and closes the journal. "Oh – that's right. My apologies, Hiro. You told me yesterday that you'd be visiting from the past today."

"I did?" Hiro marvels. "I will?"

"Yes," Suresh tells him. "I believe your future self is somewhere in Texas around thirty years from now, though I can never be too certain where you're concerned."

"I am a very busy person," Hiro says. "I am everywhere and everywhen." Suresh laughs automatically, as if he's heard Hiro tell that joke a hundred times. Hiro notices, and his face falls. "Don't tell me I've already used that joke on you," he says.

"In a way, I suppose it counts as the first time," Suresh says. He picks up his journal again and flips to the page he had been reading. "Thirteen minutes, Hiro."

_Moonlight strikes Angela's face, and she flings her arm across her eyes._

Suresh opens the hyperbaric chamber and helps Hiro to sit up. "Would you like to take a tour of the facilities?" he asks Hiro. "There are several people who would love to meet you again."

Hiro nods eagerly and Mohinder leads him out of the lab.

_She lets out a soft sigh._

Hiro is being tugged away from where he stands watching a baseball game with Gabriel by a dozen shouting children, all bright eyed and eager at the sight of him. He throws a helpless look over his shoulder before surrendering to the demands of his young admirers.

"Where did you come from, Mister Nakamura?" they shriek excitedly. "When did you go? What did you see? What did you do?" Gabriel laughs and turns his attention back to the game as Hiro is borne away by a sea of pint-sized hooligans.

_Angela awakens in her bed and smiles to herself. She will miss Kaito dearly, and it is a great relief to know that his son will flourish despite the tragedy that has befallen her own generation. She makes a mental note to speak to Suresh about Hiro's illness in the future. Then she slips out from under the covers and begins to get ready for the day. She will take a little more care in her appearance this morning. It would not do to look unkempt when Maury's son comes to bring her in for questioning this afternoon._

October 8, 2009

Angela dreams that Heidi is lecturing Simon in their living room. Her eldest grandson stands with his arms crossed and stares pointedly over his mother's shoulder. Monty watches wide-eyed from the doorway, a thick textbook clutched in his arms.

"I don't know what's gotten into you," Heidi says furiously. "Really, Simon, the headmaster's car? How could you?"

Simon favors his mother with a smug smile. "It was really easy," he tells her. "I just got the wind blowing strong enough and made a thermal column below the undercarriage, and whoosh. Up it went."

"That's not what I meant and you know it, young man," Heidi snaps. "You're lucky nobody believes one high school freshman could possibly be responsible for putting a car on the school roof. If the world had any idea what you could do–"

"But they don't, do they?" Simon interrupts. "No harm, no foul. Lighten up, Mom. It was just a prank."

"You put _the headmaster's car_ on the _roof_!" she yells. She looks faintly hysterical at the thought.

"I think it's cool," Monty pipes up.

"Thank you," Simon says.

"Don't encourage your brother," Heidi tells Monty. She fixes Simon with a stern glare. "If your father were here, he'd tell you the same thing. You need to think before you act, young man. This kind of reckless behavior is unacceptable."

"Dad's not here, though, is he?" Simon says mulishly. "Anyway, I bet he'd think it was funny."

Heidi sighs. "Go to your room," she says tiredly. "You're grounded until further notice."

Simon groans and stomps out of the living room with Monty trailing behind him.

_Angela tugs the sheets further up around her chin._

Her grandsons are in Simon's bedroom. Monty sits at the desk and watches in amazement as Simon spins gum wrappers around the carpet in six inch high whirlwinds. "I can't believe you actually did it," Monty says. "Uncle Peter is going to kill you."

"No he's not," Simon says scornfully. The miniature tornadoes whirl faster.

Monty gives him an ominous look. "If he doesn't, Grandma will," he tells his brother.

"Probably," Simon says with a grimace. He lets the whirlwinds die down. "Still," he says. "It was pretty cool." He and Monty share a secretive smile.

"So, you want to try anything else out of the book Dad sent?" Monty asks eagerly.

"Sure," Simon says. He holds out his hands for the textbook in Monty's lap. "There's a chapter in there on wind tunnels that looks pretty cool."

_When Angela wakes up, she goes to her desk and gets out a blank thank-you card. _"Gabriel,"_ she writes. _"I appreciate the interest you've taken in my grandson's development of his gift. However, the next time you send him a book on thermodynamics, please write a note on the flyleaf encouraging him to develop some discretion, as well."_ She has it stamped and addressed and in the mail before breakfast. As she's buttering her English muffin she realizes with some embarrassment that Gabriel hasn't begun to send Simon any books yet. She gives a mental shrug. Of all the people she has __known – and she has known Gabriel for a very long time – he understands better than anyone else. She __ is always Sybil, and never Cassandra._


	6. Part 6: Noah Bennett

Washington, DC

Noah Bennett's Apartment

The first conversation Noah has with 'Gabriel Nathanson' – he laughs incredulously when he hears the name – is entirely one sided. It goes something like this:

Noah comes back to his apartment after a trip to the grocery store for another week's worth of frozen dinners. He's been on the phone with Angela, who is bizarrely at ease over the fact that Sylar has been missing for over a month, and with Sandra's lawyer, who (in Noah's opinion) is a Type A prick who wouldn't know the meaning of the phrase 'at ease' if it ran up and kicked him in his shins. Angela wants an update on Noah's efforts to locate her pet psychopath –

"_But don't worry too much if you can't find him. I have a feeling he'll be getting in touch with you soon."_

And Sandra's lawyer wants to know if he's signed the divorce papers yet –

"_Mr. Bennett, the agreement is very generous considering the circumstances under which Sandra filed for divorce. We are prepared to take measures against you should you continue to refuse to cooperate."_

For the record, Noah has had the papers signed for three weeks now. He's keeping them in the cupboard beneath the dinner plates where he won't have to look at them until he gives in and hands them over to Sandra's ass of a lawyer. Before he signed them, he hid them from himself in the cushions of his sofa for two months. They're somewhat worse for wear now – he thinks he may have spilled coffee on page six, but it's been a while since he's looked at them, so he might be mistaken.

When he gets up to the floor he lives on he does what he always does after returning from grocery shopping. First he checks to make sure the hallway is clear before unlocking the door. Once inside he throws the deadbolt home and walks the fifteen feet from the front door to the refrigerator in his cramped kitchen. The frozen dinners are crammed into the freezer still in the plastic grocery bag he carried them in. Then he leaves the kitchen and goes to his laptop to check his email.

His personal address has eight offers for singles' sites, five for online college degrees, two for cash-for-gold deals, and one email from Lyle. His son wants to know if he'll be able to come to his Tae Kwon Do tournament next month. The spam gets deleted, and he leaves his son's email unanswered for the time being; he'll have to check with Sandra to make sure she's alright with sharing California for a couple days before he says yes. He opens a new tab in his browser window and logs into the Company website to check his inbox.

The most recent message is from a G. Nathanson. He clicks on the subject line – 'Just Checking In' – and reads the email with no small amount of disbelief. G. Nathanson has sent him over a half dozen ways to find him: his home address, home phone number, cell phone number, Skype name, backup email address, license plate number, and class schedule for the fall semester at Johns Hopkins. He takes a screenshot of the email and clicks on the video attachment Nathanson sent with the information.

A stranger's face – Noah assumes it's Nathanson – fills the computer screen. "Is this thing on?" Nathanson asks someone out of sight before turning his attention back to the camera. "Hi, Noah," he says. "I doubt you've missed me, so I'll skip the pleasantries. Here's how things are going to work: I'm not coming back, so forget any plans you might have for getting Parkman to mess with my mind again. I'm gone, and I'm staying gone. If you need me, you have my contact information. I'm going by Gabriel Nathanson now–" this is the part that makes Noah laugh "–and as far as everyone else is concerned, that's always been my name. Of course, seeing as how you're a suspicious bastard and no doubt want some solid proof that I'm not back to my old habits, feel free to come to Baltimore to check up on me. Hell, why don't you make a day of it and take Claire out to dinner while you're in town? I'm sure she'd love to see you."

The video ends, and Noah sits back in his seat and laughs, and laughs, and laughs. Then he takes his gun out of its holster to give it a thorough cleaning.

**

Baltimore, MD

Gabe Nathanson's Apartment

The second conversation Noah has with 'Gabriel Nathanson' is in person two days later. Angela has expressed her desire that he treat the Sylar situation the same way he'd deal with any other target under the new Company guidelines – observation at a distance only. However, expressing a desire and giving orders are miles apart, so Noah – who is every bit the suspicious bastard that he's been accused of being on more than one occasion – decides to head to Baltimore to call Sylar's bluff. He doesn't have much of a plan beyond shooting Sylar on sight and drugging him to the gills so he can interrogate him, but he's always been good at improvising when it's necessary.

His plan doesn't work out exactly as he had hoped. In fact, it falls apart the second the door opens to reveal the Sanders kid on the other side. He stifles a sigh and re-holsters his gun. So that's where the kid disappeared to.

"Hi, Micah," he addresses the kid. "Is Sylar in?"

"Gabe's in the kitchen," the Sanders kid says, not budging from the doorway. His eyes are glued to Noah's gun. "You can't come in if you're going to shoot him."

"It's okay, Micah," Sylar calls from inside the apartment. "Let him in."

The kid hesitates, so Noah tries out a harmless smile and pulls his jacket closed over his holster. "You heard the man," he says mildly. "How about letting me in?"

His smile nets him only an unimpressed look, but the kid lets the door swing fully open and walks away, very pointedly not inviting him in. Noah slips inside and gives the apartment a brief but thorough once over. If Sylar gets violent, he can use the armchair for cover, and the bookcases look like a good shove could bring them down to create a distraction while he makes his escape. He unbuttons the snap closure on his holster and puts his back to the door.

Sylar walks in from around the corner, sleeves rolled up and hands dripping wet. "Hello, Noah," he says casually as he wipes his hands clean on a dish towel.

"Am I interrupting anything?" Noah asks, eyeing the wet towel. He thinks he sees a streak of red on the cloth, but he'd need a closer look to tell if it's blood or not.

"Yes," Sylar deadpans. "I was visiting unspeakable horrors upon the stack of dirty dishes in the kitchen sink. Thank God you came to their rescue." He tosses the towel to Noah. "No blood, see?"

The red streak turns out to be dried ketchup. He drops the towel to the floor and returns his hand to the butt of his gun. "I thought you would've run a lot further than Maryland," he says. "That would have been the smart approach."

"It would have," Sylar agrees, "if I'd been running. You have to admit, letting you know how to get a hold of me would be pretty counterintuitive if I didn't want to be found."

"Isn't that what you want?" Noah asks skeptically. "To just disappear and hope no one gets too curious about the circumstances surrounding your death?"

"I just don't want to go back to pretending to be someone I'm not," Sylar says. "I want to be able to make things right and know that I'm the one doing it." He looks sincere. Noah doesn't buy it for a second.

"You're living under a false name," Noah points out. "I don't know about you, but I call that pretending to be someone you're not. What do you call it?"

"A step in the right direction," Sylar tells him. He grins unexpectedly. "Or at least a better alias than the last one." He turns away and begins strolling back to the kitchen. "I'm going to pretend that I have no idea you're planting bugs in my apartment," he says over his shoulder. "And you are going to stop by the campus and treat your daughter to dinner. She deserves a nice meal out after surviving her first week of college."

Noah's trigger finger itches, but the Sanders kid has wandered back out into the living room and is giving him a disapproving glare. He secrets a camera and directional microphone in between a book on ice crystal formations and an issue of _9__th__ Wonders_ and backs out of the apartment, keeping his eye on the kid until he's safe on the other side of the door.

He takes Claire to El Trovador for dinner. When she gushes about her new friend 'Gabe' from her art class, Noah nearly bites his tongue in half.

The third time he speaks to 'Gabriel Nathanson' is that night, though leaving death threats on his voicemail probably doesn't count in the strictest sense.

**

Washington, DC

Noah Bennett's Apartment

Peter Petrelli, interestingly enough, is the reason for the fourth conversation. Sylar calls him a few days after his trip to Baltimore to let him know that Peter might be stopping by Noah's apartment, and Micah would appreciate it if he found a reason to leave his computer unattended for a few minutes –

"_I'm told it has something to do with the Rebellion. It's nothing the Boy Genius couldn't get himself, but Pete's pretty gung-ho about helping out – and he really wants to pull a fast one on the Company."_

It would be harder than pulling teeth to get Noah to admit it, but during his stint at Building 26, he was always perversely pleased when an op was foiled by Rebel. The kid's terrible taste in friends aside, he's pulled off some incredible things as the mastermind behind the group. The sensible thing would be to turn down the request – especially since it was Sylar who conveyed it. But after Angela informs him that no, they won't be bringing Sylar in, and yes, she is aware that her granddaughter is being exposed to a homicidal maniac on a near daily basis, he's in no mood to help the Company, either.

Peter shows up that same afternoon, and Noah suddenly remembers that his trash needs taking out. When he gets back Peter is doing his best to not look smug. It's clear that Nathan got the lion's share of the Petrelli family's gift for dissembling. He ushers Peter out the door before he gives in to the temptation to give him some pointers on how to hold a poker face. He has a feeling he'll be spending the weekend crouched over his laptop watching the video feed from Sylar's apartment, and his back is already cramping up in anticipation.

**

Baltimore, MD

Gabe Nathanson's Apartment

The fifth conversation is one of the difficult ones. Noah doesn't doubt that there will be harder conversations in the future, but the one they have after Peter brings Suresh to Baltimore makes his top ten list, right below the 'you're adopted' talk with Claire and right above the 'your mom and I are getting a divorce' talk with Lyle. It's also the last one he records before he turns off the bugs he planted, and this is exactly how it goes:

Noah knocks on Nathanson's apartment door on a Tuesday afternoon. He doesn't bring his gun this time, and Nathanson is the one who lets him in. They stand in the living room in an awkward silence, which Nathanson breaks by saying, "So I'm guessing you caught that conversation Pete and I had with Mohinder."

"Yeah," Noah says. "Yeah. I did. So…. Nathan Petrelli's soul, huh?" He gives Nathanson a hard look, attempting to see what Peter saw in him.

"Don't sound so skeptical, Noah," Nathanson tells him. "Aren't you a Methodist?"

"I haven't been to church in years," Noah says. "Come on. Be serious."

"I am serious," Nathanson says. "How else do you explain why I am the way I am now?"

Noah snorts derisively. "Off the top of my head – you're covering your tracks better."

"I'm going to point out once again that I led you straight to me," Nathanson says, rolling his eyes.

"You have a point there," Noah concedes. He still can't see Nathan Petrelli in Gabriel Nathanson, but then again, he doesn't see much of Sylar in Nathanson either. "Do you think that this makes everything you've done suddenly not matter anymore?"

"Actually, I figure this makes things worse for you in some ways," Nathanson says with a small smirk. "If I were you I wouldn't be too thrilled that my daughter was spending so much time getting to know her birth father."

"I wouldn't be too sure of that," Noah shoots back. "From the way she's been talking you up, I was starting to think you were trying to seduce her."

Nathanson shudders in disgust, and now Noah can finally see Petrelli's influence – not the senator or the attorney or the Navy pilot, but the devoted family man. "I hadn't actually thought of that," he says, and he looks almost sick. "Jesus."

"What's to stop me from telling Claire?" Noah asks him. "She deserves to know."

"She does," Nathanson says, and he looks at Noah pleadingly. "She will. But don't tell her, Noah. Please. Let me have this time with her."

"Why?" he asks. "Give me one good reason why I should."

"Because if you didn't think there was even the slightest chance that I might actually be more Nathan Petrelli than Gabriel Gray, you wouldn't be asking me that," Nathanson tells him.

There's nothing Noah can say to that except, "This is going to break her heart."

"I know," Nathanson says quietly. "Believe me, I know."

**

Washington, DC

Noah Bennett's Apartment

The eighteenth conversation they have takes place in mid December on a frozen morning. Noah has just hung up on Angela Petrelli, who is still unnervingly calm about her 'son's' disappearance. He thinks to himself for a single short minute and then gives in and calls Nathanson.

"The search was called off," Noah tells him. "I'm coming out to Baltimore this afternoon to tell Claire in person."

"No," Nathanson says immediately. "I'll take care of her."

"She'll need her father," Noah says.

"God damn it, Noah," Nathanson snaps. "She's my daughter too."

They fall into a speechless silence. It's the first time Nathanson has put it so bluntly; Noah can't quite believe he even said it, and he's not sure Nathanson can believe it either.

"I'll call her this afternoon," Noah finally says. "Fix this, Gabriel. Or I will."

"I'll take care of her," Nathanson says again.

Noah realizes after he gets off the phone that that's the first time he's addressed Nathanson by his first name. He chalks it up to stress.

The hours after the phone call he makes to Claire are nerve-wracking. He makes for the door with his car keys in hand a dozen times before stashing them in the cupboard with the soup bowls where he won't be tempted to look for them. He wears a path in the carpet pacing the length of his living room for most of the night – eleven paces from end to end, eight if he takes longer strides – until finally he falls into an uneasy sleep on his couch.

He wakes late the next morning to the sound of a text message being delivered to his cell phone, and as he reads it he can feel the anxious knot in his chest loosening.

_She knows. She's fine. I'm curious: where did she get a taste for jam on her waffles?_

**

Baltimore, MD

Gabe Nathanson's Apartment

The conversation that makes Noah forgive Nathanson is one that he's only a witness to. He's in Baltimore on a late Friday evening in June to check up on things - he tells himself it's to keep Nathanson on a short leash, but six months of weekly visits have worn his justification pretty thin. They spent the past hour talking about how Claire is doing –

"_Her biology professor thinks she's the greatest thing since Darwin. I have a feeling she's going to go for a science major."_

And Micah has filled him in on the latest win that Rebel has pulled off –

"_That intel you gave us on Salt Lake City came in handy last Tuesday. West got the Baker family out just in time."_

He's in the bathroom washing his hands when he hears the front door open. At Nathanson's concerned exclamation of "Claire!" he wipes the water off on his pants and hurries back to the living room. When he rounds the corner he sees his daughter huddled in the armchair with Nathanson kneeling before her. They're both oblivious to his presence. He watches from the edge of the room, ready to thrust himself between Claire and Nathanson if it looks like it's necessary.

"What happened?" Nathanson asks her gently.

She sniffles. "Eliot," she says in a choked voice. "Jenny's ex."

Homicidal rage flashes across Nathanson's face in a mirror of Noah's emotions. "Did he–"

"No," she says, shaking her head. She lets out a tiny hiccoughing laugh. "He didn't get a chance. I did what you told me to do."

Nathanson rocks back on his heels with a sigh of relief. "You punched him?" he asks.

She shakes her head again. "I think I ruptured one of his testicles."

"That's my Supergirl," Nathanson says with a laugh. He cups her face in his hands and wipes her tears with his thumbs. "I'm so glad you're alright."

Claire gives him a trembling smile. "Thanks to you."

"No, sweetheart," Nathanson tells her. "I just gave you advice. You're the one who protected yourself. I'm so proud of you, Claire."

Noah steps forward to get his daughter's attention. "I'm proud of you too," he says, and smiles at her wide eyed look of surprise.

"Dad?" she asks in disbelief. "What are you doing here?"

"He's doing what fathers do best," Nathanson says. "He's looking out for his daughter."

She looks at him seriously from her vantage point over Nathanson's shoulders. "You can't take him back to the Company," she tells him. "He's not Sylar anymore."

"I know," he says simply, and he finds to his surprise that he doesn't have even a shred of doubt left. "I know he's not."

"So what are you going to do?" she asks him.

Nathanson meets his eyes, and they have a moment of perfect understanding. Tonight they'll keep things lighthearted for Claire's sake. And tomorrow – tomorrow, they'll track down the boy who hurt their little girl and teach him a lesson he won't forget.

"I'm going to make you some hot chocolate," he tells Claire. "And then, Gabriel and I will teach you some more tricks to fighting dirty."

**

Oh God, the HRG chapter. I hope I did him justice...


	7. Part 3: Micah Sanders

New Orleans, LA

Nana Dawson's House

_Rule One: "Sometimes doing what's right isn't the easiest option, but if it needs doing, then stick to your guns."_

It takes a while to convince them, but eventually Nana and Monica agree with Micah's plan. When they have a family meeting in the living room to talk about what to do, he comes prepared with a whole list of reasons that he wrote out by hand explaining why Gabe needs help, and why they should be the ones to give it to him. 'Mom did bad things when Jessica took over' and 'Dad went to prison for something he didn't do' are the first to be written down; they're not _exactly_ relevant to Gabe's situation, but they're what comes to mind. The next reasons he puts down are all various ways to say 'We're Rebel and we help people like us'. He gets a good half page out of that. When he runs out of different ways to phrase it, he gives in and adds 'He saved my life when he was still a bad guy'.

It turns out that the problem that his cousin and great-aunt have with Gabe isn't that he used to kill people (though he's pretty sure it would be a bigger problem for them if they knew more about all the things he did when he was Sylar), it's that Nathan Petrelli is a big part of who he is now. There's no love lost between his family and the senator who turned them and everyone like them into fugitives. Monica believes that they did more than enough for him when he showed up back at the beginning of May looking for help from someone he barely knew. Nana is a little more generous, and says that while creating a fake background for Gabe to help him start fresh is a good, if illegal, idea, anything more is unnecessary. Micah is secretly relieved that he doesn't have to use his list of reasons. He doesn't think that the one about being rescued by a serial killer would go over very well.

He has a more solid argument against their anti-Petrelli stance. The Rebellion needs help if they want to stay a step ahead of the government. It was hard enough when they were trying to keep other specials from being captured, and back then the goal of Building 26 was to detain, not kill. Since Homeland Security disbanded the organization, the Rebellion has been scrambling to keep track of the other, much more private government efforts to deal with the specials. And the DHS doesn't have any problem with killing instead of capturing now that they can do it without public scrutiny. They need a better cover, better equipment, and a better home base. Micah knows that Gabe can provide all that.

It's a sign of how much things have changed over the past year when neither Nana nor Monica try to pull the older and wiser card on him. It's not that they consider him an adult like they are, but when he talks to them as the leader of the Rebellion and not as Nana's twelve year old ward, they listen. He suspects sometimes that they try to think of him as two different people, just to make it less weird when they're telling him to do his homework less than an hour after he's given Monica an update and a new assignment. So when he sits down with them as Rebel and outlines their situation, and tells them how stretched thin the group is, and explains how badly they need both money and a secure place for headquarters, they don't disagree.

Nana hovers a lot the last day he's in New Orleans, forcing second helpings on him at meals and grabbing him into tight hugs when he's not expecting it, and Monica asks him if he's really okay with going through with his plan so many times that even Damon notices that something strange is going on. His cousin helps carry out the boxes of Gabe's books and kitchenware to the back of the rental truck without any prompting from Nana and shoots curious glances at Micah all day long. Micah puts his suitcase and bedding in the space behind the seats in the cab and waits on the porch with Monica for West to show up with Gabe.

They arrive right after sunset. West comes in for a vertical landing and drops Gabe into Nana's flowerbed. He heads back up into the air immediately, not stopping to do more than give Micah a joking salute. Micah returns the gesture gratefully and gets off the porch to get a better look at his new guardian. It's kind of strange to see the way he looks now – Gabe looks a little like Nathan Petrelli and a little like Gabriel Gray, and a lot more comfortable in his own skin than when he still thought of himself as one or the other.

"Ready to go?" Gabe asks him quietly.

Micah nods. "Monica has the keys," he says, and the truck's engine starts up with a rumble.

They watch as Monica rolls down the driver's window. "I'll do the driving," she tells them in an uncompromising voice.

After a second's hesitation, Gabe shrugs and walks around to the passenger door. "It'll be nice to have another pair of hands for the move," he says at her suspicious look.

They roll through the city with the radio on low. Micah falls asleep to the faint crooning of Etta James somewhere along I-59 North and doesn't wake up until they pull into the motel parking lot to stop for the night.

**

Baltimore, MD

Rebel Base

_Rule Two: "Unless a lie is absolutely necessary, do your best to tell the truth."_

Gabe doesn't have any trouble smooth talking Micah's way into a late acceptance to a local private school, though Micah thinks it has as much to do with the charitable donation Gabe makes as it does with Micah's grades. He sits on one of the boxes of books and listens in amusement to Gabe's side of the conversation. By the time Gabe gets off the phone with the dean, Micah is certain his reputation has been cemented at his new school for good: the poor, brilliant orphan, taken in by his mother's wealthy cousin. Micah doesn't know exactly where all of Gabe's money comes from, but he can tell from the stiff shrug that Gabe gives him when he asks that it's not something he's comfortable talking about.

The family connection is the only lie they tell for Micah's cover story. Gabe's is more complicated. Micah has to start from scratch for his, with a new birth certificate, Social Security number, medical records, and academic transcript. In the end he borrows heavily from both Gabriel Gray's and Nathan Petrelli's real records. He's glad he does because when Gabe goes over his new medical history, his eyes go soft and he rubs the scar on his chin with a small smile.

The first night in their new home, Monica helps Gabe sort his books by subject while Micah pretends to be absorbed in programming his new laptop. They sit on the floor in front of the bookcases surrounded by stacks of books and empty boxes. Monica has finally stopped looking at Gabe in distrust, and in return he's started to open up to her – he hasn't shared much about his personal life, but they laugh and joke together, and seem to get along. They reach the last box, and the smile falls off Gabe's face as he pulls open the top. Micah watches from behind the screen of his laptop as Gabe reaches inside with careful hands and pulls out a framed photograph.

"Is that your family?" Monica asks gently.

Gabe runs his fingers across the faces in the picture. "My boys," he tells her. "Simon and Monty. Simon's the older one." He looks almost _broken_ for a moment, and he clears his throat gruffly. "I mean, they're Nathan's kids."

He makes like he's going to set the picture aside. Monica stops him with a hand on his wrist. "This must be hard for you, too," she says sympathetically.

"It's not the end of the world," he says. "Believe me, I'd rather be me as I am now than as I was before you and Micah helped me. I was lost when I thought I was Nathan, and before that, I was the worst kind of person."

"I hear a 'but' in there somewhere," Monica says, and Gabe smiles a little.

"But it is difficult. I figure it's just going to take time to get used to it, but sometimes my memories conflict over the strangest things. I remember going to Grover Cleveland High School in Queens, for example, but I also remember going to Trinity School in Manhattan." He grips the picture frame tighter. "I know I'm twenty nine, but I also know I have an eighteen year old daughter."

"I'm sorry," Monica offers.

"Why?" he asks, surprised. "None of this is your fault."

"I know," she says, and takes his free hand in hers. "But sometimes it helps to hear that someone cares."

Micah's laptop gives him a polite mental nudge, and he turns his attention back to his project. It's a very nice machine. It has both the zippy processing speed and agreeable personality that his old computer lacked. It wasn't his old computer's fault, really – it just grumbled when Micah wanted it to do something that its processors couldn't keep up with. He silently praises his laptop's excellent hard drive, and it gives him the computer equivalent of a blush.

When he looks up again, Gabe is smiling, and Monica is still holding his hand.

**

_Rule Three: "Never forget the meaning of family. Your loved ones are the most important people you'll ever know."_

Peter Petrelli shows up at the apartment the day after Monica heads back to New Orleans. Micah is sitting cross-legged on the living room floor in front of his laptop poring through confidential emails from the Department of Homeland Security, listening to the machine's happy whirr as it very helpfully pre-sorts the emails into categories for him. Gabe is hunched over in the armchair with a pad of drafting paper balanced on his knees and a straight ruler in his right hand while he blocks out a design. The knock at the door is unexpected, and Gabe swears when his hands jerk at the sound. He sets the pad aside and goes to the door with an irritated grumble.

Gabe barely has the door open when Peter pushes his way inside furiously. Micah lifts his laptop from the floor in front of him and sets it on his lap, just in case Peter missteps and breaks his computer while he's stomping around.

"You weren't supposed to come see me so soon," Gabe says.

Peter glares at him. "And _you_ were just going to disappear and let me think that all those memories you have of being my brother didn't mean anything more to you than watching someone else's home movies."

"No," Gabe protests. "Not at all. I wanted…I wanted to give you time." He catches Peter by the elbow and looks relieved when he isn't shaken off. "I wanted you to have some time to get used to me not – well, not being completely me anymore."

"What am I to you?" Peter demands.

"You're my brother," Gabe says, "and I love you."

"So why the hell would you think I need time away from you?" Peter asks.

"Pete, look at me," Gabe says bitterly. "I have this face for a reason. I'm not enough of either Nathan Petrelli or Gabriel Gray to live either of their lives."

"You're still my brother, no matter what you look like or call yourself," Peter tells him. He touches Gabe's chin and smiles crookedly. "You kept the scar."

"I wanted to keep the reminder of the day my little brother decided I was his hero," Gabe says, and his smile is identical to Peter's.

Peter pulls him into a tight hug that, to Micah, seems to last forever. He never has a day where he doesn't miss his parents, but seeing Gabe and Peter hug makes Micah feel like he only lost them yesterday, and he wishes it were possible for him to be able to throw his arms around them like Peter's doing with Gabe.

When they break apart they both have suspiciously shiny eyes. "Remind me to thank Parkman," Gabe says with a shaky laugh.

"I know why I'm grateful, but why are you?" Peter asks.

"Because I'm still here," Gabe says. He looks around and seems startled to see that Micah is still in the room. "Pete," he says, "You remember Micah Sanders, right?"

Peter smiles. "From Kirby Plaza, right. Sorry we didn't meet under better circumstances."

"Me, too," Micah says. "I'm glad you didn't die."

"What are you up to?" Peter asks, aiming a curious look at Micah's laptop.

Micah can't help the huge grin that breaks across his face – he might be doing this for a serious reason, but his power will never stop being incredibly cool. "I'm hacking the Department of Homeland Security," he tells Peter. "Do you want to see?"

"Pete, meet the most wanted criminal on the DHS domestic terror watch list," Gabe says. He smirks at Peter's dumbfounded expression. "Welcome to Rebel Base."

**

_Rule Four: "No violence in the apartment. If you can't manage that, keep it clean. If you can't do that either, put down a tarp first."_

It isn't often that they have to act as a stop on the railroad, but sometimes they're the most conveniently located Rebellion operatives in the area. When they get word that there's a special close by in danger of being discovered by the government, Gabe heads out to pick them up before DHS gets there first. Micah keeps a checklist handy and goes over it while he waits for Gabe's return.

Is the next stop lined up? Check. Does the camera have fresh batteries? Check. Has the sofa been folded out into a bed? Check. Has the first aid kid been restocked in case their guest is injured? Check.

The specials that Micah and Gabe are directly involved in helping are ones who went underground after being freed from Building 26. Most of them were too traumatized after being held captive to even make it out of the Maryland-Virginia-Delaware area. They're the ones who need the most help, and they're usually the ones who are too scared to help themselves until it's too late.

Micah always makes sure to have everything their guest needs to feel safe and comfortable ready for when Gabe walks through the door. If he's bringing home a kid, Micah has hot chocolate and board games ready. If he brings home an adult, it's chamomile tea and a clean change of clothes. Everyone gets a shower and a hot meal, and then Micah and Gabe sit them down and tell them who will come to take them where in the morning.

And Gabe will stay up all night to make sure they don't have nightmares, because he's made it his personal mission to help everyone that was hurt by Building 26. He doesn't talk about why he does it, but Micah thinks it has to do with the fact that both of the people he once was used to have something to do with the agency. Micah stays up late too, but Gabe always makes him go to bed before midnight.

"You're too young to develop insomnia," Gabe always says at around eleven thirty at night. "You can do that when you're an adult and ought to know better." Sometimes Micah gets up in the middle of the night to get a glass of water, and the light will still be on in the kitchen. He feels bad for Gabe on the nights they have guests. It's not right that one person should have two lifetimes worth of guilt.

The first guest they have is a girl Micah's age with arms like twigs. She clutches the mug of hot chocolate close to her chest and doesn't say a word the whole time she's there. The next is a man in his thirties who reads Gabe's entire library through two black eyes. The third one is a teenage boy with reddish brown hair who smirks and talks like nothing in the world scares him. He has such a bad nightmare that he accidentally kills Gabe when Gabe tries to wake him. The panicked shouting wakes Micah up, but it's the smell of microwaved meat that makes it impossible for him to go back to sleep.

The boy is shaken and apologetic the next morning, and even though Gabe waves it off like it happens every day, Micah gets the feeling from the way Gabe doesn't meet the boy's eyes that one of the people he used to be might have known the boy from before. It takes Gabe hours to relax after the boy's been safely delivered into another operative's hands and taken on his way to the next stop.

Micah and Gabe tell their guests to keep their names to themselves, just in case DHS wises up and recruits a telepath – or more likely, captures a telepath and forces him or her to work for the agency. The only names that they need to know are the names on the false driver's licenses, credit cards, and birth certificates that they make up for their guests: Carrie Lewis, Tom Hill, John Bayer.

Every time one of them leaves, Micah crosses his fingers and hopes that the next time they meet, it will be safe to know their names.

**

Rule Five: "Don't let the world pass you by because you're too busy saving it. Even the leader of the Rebellion needs to be a kid once in a while."

Micah is the reigning mahjong champion of the Sunday night game nights that he and Gabe have with Peter. No one comes close to beating Gabe at Risk, and Peter has a stranglehold on the Scrabble high score.

On the last night before classes start, he and Gabe and Peter are all crowded around the kitchen table playing Scrabble. Peter lays down the tiles to finish the word 'polycystic' for a triple word score, and Gabe groans and tosses a tile at him.

"What do you do, eat a dictionary before you come down to visit us?" he asks Peter in amusement.

Peter laughs. "Thesaurus, actually," he says. "I tried a dictionary once, but I got a bunch of proper nouns stuck between my back teeth." He gives Gabe a toothy smile. "You're just sore because I have a bigger vocabulary."

"Cut out all the stuff you learned in nursing school and you've got nothing on me," Gabe tells him.

"Just keep telling yourself that," Pete says. "I mean, it's not like you could have chosen something better than 'animals' three turns ago."

"Or 'dirty' on the first round," Micah supplies. "Aren't you supposed to be really smart?"

"What is this, pick on Gabe night?" Gabe jokes. He glances at the clock. "Alright, enough with the comedy routine. It's time for bed, Micah."

Micah wants to ask to stay up for at least a few more rounds of Scrabble, but Gabe is right; it is pretty late, and he doesn't want to be too tired to pay attention in school tomorrow. He nods instead and says goodnight to Peter before going to get ready for bed. He can hear them talking in low voices as he changes into his pajamas and brushes his teeth, and he knows that Peter's probably going to end up staying over again. He usually does when he and Gabe work on their project at night.

When he crawls into bed, Gabe comes to turn off the lights. Sometimes Micah thinks that Gabe does that every night instead of tucking him in because he misses Simon and Monty. "Goodnight, kiddo," Gabe tells him softly from the doorway. "Sleep well."

"'Night, Gabe," Micah replies from beneath his blankets. "You too."

He lies in bed in the dark listening to the sounds of his guardian and Peter brainstorming together in the kitchen, and he thinks to himself that it may not feel like home yet, but he and Gabe are getting there, one day at a time.


	8. Part 7: Hiro Nakamura

Here

Five Seconds before Now

Time stops.

Hiro knows that time has stopped because of the hush that falls over the sounds of traffic and the voices of the pedestrians crowding the sidewalk, and because the rain that has been pouring down the collar of his jacket has suddenly stopped. He lifts his face up to the swollen gray clouds above his head and marvels at the sight of the stationary raindrops, halted in place before they can hit the ground. He squeezes on between his fingers experimentally; it's like touching a soap bubble with wet fingers. There's a moment of resistance, and then it bursts and dribbles down into the vee of his thumb and index finger.

His head doesn't hurt, at least no more than it usually does these days. He can't have been the one to stop time. He's sure he would know if it was his doing. That leaves only the option that someone else has used his ability. He turns his attention to the sea of people surrounding him, looking for the culprit. Sure enough, further down the block there is a man weaving his way through the frozen bodies.

At Hiro's side, Ando is a statue clutching an umbrella, mouth pursed mid-word. The other time stopper draws closer and Hiro steps in front of his friend protectively. It's possible that the stranger means no harm, but Hiro won't take that risk, not where Ando is concerned.

The stranger squeezes past the last cluster of frozen pedestrians and beams at Hiro. "I'm sorry you had to wait," he says. "I was so sure I'd teleported to the right spot." He gives a philosophical shrug and pushes his glasses up his nose. "Hello, past me."

"Hello, future me," Hiro says. He eyes his other self warily. The last time the two of them met – a different two of them, to be fair – the future was a terrible place, and his other self had been full of dire warnings about the need to stop it from happening. This future Hiro doesn't seem scared or angry, though, just older. "Does the world need saving again?" He sort of hopes it doesn't. He is a hero, but as long as his powers make him sick he won't be able to help.

His future self laughs. "Not at all," he reassures Hiro. "Your future – the future I came from – is a good one." He casts a fond look at Ando. "You'll enjoy it."

"It's good to finally hear something pleasant about the future," Hiro says. A thought strikes him, and he frowns. "But what if you coming here changes it?"

"It won't," his future self says.

"How do you know?" Hiro presses him.

"Because when I was you, a future me came to me, just like I have come to you," his other self says.

Hiro breathes a sigh of relief. "Good. Then…why did you come?"

"Because you are about to take a trip," his future self says. He hands Hiro a photograph of a large white building atop a sloping lawn. There is a crease down the center from where it's been folded in half to fit into his future self's back pocket.

"But I can't teleport," Hiro protests. "Dr. Suresh says I'll kill myself if I use my powers." He's been having good luck so far with obeying Dr. Suresh's instructions. His nosebleeds have stopped happening as frequently, and the tingling in his hands hasn't spread to the rest of his body. It isn't a cure, but it's better than doing something that could make things worse.

"One trip," his future self says. "I did it myself fourteen years ago. It won't kill you, I promise. It will make things better." He smiles. "You know I'm telling the truth. If I sent my past self to go and get killed, it would write me out of existence."

His future self makes sense, and though Hiro dreads the pain that will come with teleporting, who can he trust more than himself? "I can't just leave Ando," he says. "I would not abandon my friend like that."

"Eventually you'll stop thinking in a linear pattern," his future self tells him. "Go to the place in the photograph, fourteen years from today. You'll be back before Ando even notices you're gone."

"If you're sure," Hiro says uncertainly.

"Go," his future self says again.

He fights down the fear of the pain that awaits him, screws up his face in concentration, and –

**

Four Hundred and Sixty Six Kilometers from Here

Fourteen Years from Now

Time starts.

It starts with a throbbing headache and buckling knees, and someone wraps an arm around Hiro's shoulders and steers him to a comfortable seat in the lobby he's just teleported into. _"Just sit back and relax, Hiro,"_ the person tells him. _"Jesus. I'd forgotten how bad it used to get."_

Hiro can't see through the pain throbbing behind his eyes, but he recognizes the voice. _"Peter Petrelli?"_ He winces at the sound of his own voice echoing inside his skull.

"_Shh. Don't talk until you feel up to it," _Peter says, and he holds a plastic mask over Hiro's nose and mouth. _"Take deep, slow breaths. That's it."_ He sets a compact tank of compressed air in Hiro's hands.

The air that fills his lungs feels somehow like it's more: cleaner, fresher, richer, cooler. He can barely stop himself from gulping down great lungfuls of it. He forces himself to pace his breathing as Peter has instructed. Bit by bit his vision clears, and Peter's concerned face swims into view.

"_Is that helping?"_ Peter asks.

"_Yes. Thank you,"_ Hiro says weakly. _"What is wrong with me?"_ It's clear that Dr. Suresh discovered the source of his illness in the past.

Peter uncaps a syringe and rolls up one of Hiro's sleeves. _"You'd have to ask Mohinder for all the details, but the short answer is decompression sickness."_ He slides the tip of the syringe into the muscle of Hiro's forearm gently and empties the contents. _"Apparently teleportation puts a ton of pressure on your body. You had a pretty good resistance at first, but after a while the effects started to catch up to you."_

"_And this makes me better?"_ Hiro asks. His hands have stopped prickling, and the deepest pain in his joints is starting to let up. _"What is in the needle?"_

"_It's a synthesized version of Claire's blood,"_ Peter explains. _"We keep it on hand for major medical emergencies. Unfortunately, the synthetic stuff isn't as much of a cure-all, but it does speed up healing. When Mohinder figures out how to make it in your time, you'll only need to come in after every few teleportations instead of every time."_

"_Thank you,"_ Hiro says again.

Peter nods. _"Any time."_ He looks away and flags down someone outside of Hiro's field of vision. _"Noah! Come here for a minute, will you?"_

A boy around ten years of age dashes over. _"Hi, Hiro,"_ he says cheerfully. _"Hey, Uncle Pete. Whatcha need?"_ .

"_Could you show Hiro where the research lab is?"_ Peter asks. _"I have to go track down Matt."_

"_No problem," _Noah says, and he smirks. _"You just want to see if you can psych him out before the game."_

Peter reaches out to ruffle Noah's already unruly hair, and the boy ducks away, laughing, and pats his hair down with hands the color of milky coffee. _"It's not psyching him out if we're really going to win,"_ he says. He grins at Hiro. _"Good to see you, Hiro. Stop in to see me when you get back to your time, alright?"_

"_Alright," _Hiro echoes. He waits until Peter has left before asking, _"What is this game?"_

"_Baseball,"_ Noah tells him. _"Dad and Uncle Pete coach my team, and Coach Parkman has the older kids. We have a 'powers allowed' game at the end of every season." _He gives Hiro a conspiratorial smile. _"We have a lock on it this year. I can feel it."_ He gives Hiro a hand up and leads the way across the lobby toward the staircase. Hiro follows on wobbly legs, still clutching the plastic mask to his face and cradling the miniature gas tank in his arms.

"_Why is that?"_ Hiro asks.

"_Because,"_ Noah says. He pauses for dramatic effect, and the devious expression on his face makes him look strangely familiar. _"I got switched to outfield this season – and I can fly."_

**

Four Thousand and Eighty Seven Kilometers from Here

Eight Hours before Now

Space shifts.

It shifts into a dusty parking lot in front of a diner in the middle of the desert. A faint wind lifts the dust from the ground and sails it to the diner steps where it piles up against the cracked cement like the world's tiniest sand dunes. The same light wind sets the diner's sign creaking back and forth – an inch back, an inch forth.

_Good Food_, the sign reads. _Have a Nice Day._ Hiro has been here before, when Nathan Petrelli landed in this same parking lot. Back when Nathan Petrelli was 'Flying Man' and a hero, not the villain of the story. It's hard to give a context to Nathan Petrelli's actions last year that might explain why he did what he did. He's tried to find answers in the pages of his comic books, but the storylines for the fall and redemption of a hero are too neat and simple to draw comparisons.

Hiro tucks the oxygen tank under one arm and climbs the stairs to the diner. Inside, patrons in the booths chatter together over breakfast, and the men seated at the counter eat silently as they read their newspapers. A flash of copper hair catches Hiro's eye. The waitress tending the booths is a redhead, and when she turns in his direction, he sees that she has a sweet, round face. She smiles at him, and he ducks his head uncomfortably.

He takes a seat at the counter and orders Belgian waffles from a sturdy middle-aged woman without a trace of red anywhere in her hair, and as he waits he thinks about Noah's father, who had watched (will watch) his son catch a baseball forty feet in the air with a proud smile. Gabe. That's what Peter called (will call) him. The oddly familiar Gabe and his oddly familiar son, both tall and dark eyed, with the same large nose and playful smirk. It was (will be) odd how captivating Gabe was (is) – more so than any other ordinary powered person Hiro has met or will meet.

The waitress sets his plate down in front of him. _"That gonna be it for you? Do you want coffee or something?"_

"_Orange juice, please,"_ Hiro says. He cuts his waffles into small strips, one square by three squares, and drags them through the buttery syrup pooled on the plate before bringing them to his mouth. He eats them on autopilot, one strip after another, mind on the other side of the country fourteen years from now.

_The sun is high and bright above the baseball diamond. Hiro stands at the fence beside a man that Matt Parkman and Peter have addressed as 'Gabe'. He doesn't behave any differently than the dozens of people Hiro has been introduced to today, but there's something in the respectful way that people look at him that makes Hiro think that this man has a very important role at the Shanti Center. Gabe addresses Hiro without taking his eyes off the pregame warm up._

"Enjoying your trip to the future?"_ he asks._

_Hiro nods, and speaks up when he realizes Gabe isn't looking._ "Yes, very much. It is very peaceful here. Is it always like this?"

_Gabe looks at him sidelong and shakes his head slightly._ "We still have our share of problems, though we mostly fight it out politically these days – lots of lobbying for equal rights."_ He turns his attention back to the field. _"But yes, what we have here is our own little slice of paradise."

"I looked for Ando, but I couldn't find him," _Hiro says._ "Is he busy somewhere else, or–"_ He can't finish saying it._

_Luckily, Gabe seems to know where he's headed with that thought_. "Ando is with our Hiro," _he says._ "They're practically inseparable. Like a time travelling Odd Couple."_ He squints at one of the players and calls out,_ "Watch those elbows, Joey!"

_The warm up comes to an end and the players take their places on the field. The first up to bat is the 'Joey' Gabe had shouted to. She gives the bat a practice swing._ "Are you the father of a player?"_ Hiro asks._

"I sure am," _Gabe says proudly. He points to Noah, who's waiting on deck for his turn to bat._ "That's my son Noah. He's one hell of a kid."

"He showed me where Dr. Suresh's lab is,"_ Hiro says. _"He called Peter Petrelli 'uncle'."

_Gabe smiles. _"That sounds about right – Pete's like a brother to me. Noah's grown up calling him 'Uncle Pete'. You're pretty high on his list of favorite people, too."

_There's a sharp cracking sound as Joey hits the ball, and the air over the field is suddenly filled with twenty more baseballs._ "Illusionist,"_ Gabe tells him unnecessarily as Joey takes advantage of the chaos and dashes to third base._

"When do we meet?"_ Hiro asks._

_Gabe gives him his full attention for the first time since Hiro joined him at the fence._ "You've already met me,"_ he says._ "In your past."

"I don't remember you,"_ Hiro tells him._

_Gabe just looks at him intently, and Hiro starts to feel slightly trapped beneath his gaze._ "You will,"_ he says simply._

The plate in front of him is empty save for a few crumbs, and Hiro can't remember more than the first few bites of waffles. What he does remember, like a punch to the gut, is when and where he has seen Gabe's intimidating stare before. He takes a reflexive gulp of his orange juice and winces at the sour taste.

He could change it. He could go back in time, stop Sylar from killing Nathan Petrelli, stop Sylar from killing anyone –

No. He couldn't. Not at the expense of the future he's been to. He has a feeling that the man Sylar becomes (became) is key to its existence. It is tempting, so very tempting, but he has learned his lesson about playing God with the timeline. He drinks his sour juice slowly and waits for the urge to pass.

**

Here

Now

Space shifts.

It shifts back to the wet, crowded sidewalk in New York. The rain is still frozen in midair, and Ando is still looking at the space Hiro had been occupying, still in the middle of attempting to reassure him that Dr. Suresh has probably made progress on finding a cure. Hiro slips back into place and blinks the world back into motion.

"–bably has some idea of what's wrong by now," Ando tells him. "I'm sure he does."

"So am I," Hiro says, and he smiles wide at his best friend, his long suffering partner and fellow hero, his comrade in arms, the Batman to his Superman.

"What's that?" Ando asks, pointing at the oxygen tank Hiro still has tucked beneath an arm. "Hiro, did you use your power?" He looks Hiro over worriedly. "You did, didn't you? Are you alright?"

"Oxygen, yes, yes, and yes," Hiro says. "My future self told me to."

"Why didn't you take me with you?" Ando asks.

Hiro gives him a shrug that he knows will probably annoy his friend. "I don't know," he says. "Forgive me?"

Ando lets out a small sound of aggravation that's as good as a yes. "As long as you tell me all about it," he says.

"As if I'd do anything less," Hiro says. "But later. Let's see if Dr. Suresh has a cure yet."

He smiles hopefully, and Ando shakes his head in disbelief, smiling as well. "Alright," he tells Hiro, and they head up the steps and into the future.


End file.
